


Something's Gotta Give

by ViolentMedic



Series: Blue Moon (Fallout: New Vegas AU) [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fallout (Video Games) Setting, Alternate Universe - Human, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Murder, No Underage Content But The Main Pair Meet When One's Still Underage, Or Really More 'All Those Things At Once', Prostitution, Rating May Change, Referenced cannibalism, Sexual References, Well Mostly Since Some Characters Are Ghouls and Such, forced drugging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-07-18 20:07:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16125797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolentMedic/pseuds/ViolentMedic
Summary: On October 23rd, 2077, the world ended in nuclear fire. Pockets of humanity survived in great underground vaults, and later emerged from the vaults to rebuild. Others survived through luck. Many clusters of humanity grouped together into gangs or tribes, and some of them lasted for a long time.On July 5th, 2267, Hank and the gang he belonged to, a tribe called the Great Khans, arrived in the ruins of Vegas. They were near-immediately beset upon by another gang, led by a woman named Amanda. Backed up by three boys of near-identical appearance.On January 16th, 2280, Amanda’s tribe had long since shed their old trappings and become something new, running a once-abandoned casino for the mysterious new ruler of Vegas. And on this day, Connor found an old enemy(?) passed out in a bar.Based primarily on Fallout: New Vegas, but should be readable without knowledge of the canon.





	1. First Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> Is it weird that I’m writing Hankcon right after Fog and Ice? Probably! But fuck it, I do what I want. 
> 
> Similar to Fog and Ice, this is an AU based on another video game, but this one is less ‘whole plot ripoff’ and more ‘just playing around in the world.’ Going with a mix of ‘characters from Detroit just belonging to particular factions but not directly replacing anyone’ and just a few direct replacements. If you don’t recognise a name, it’s probably a Fallout character, since most of the canon ones are also just breezing about. I’ll try to supply enough world-building info to make it readable.
> 
> This isn’t thoroughly planned out, so tags will update. It may or may not get explicit but if it does I’ll make the explicit scenes skippable. It may get dark in places but it’ll be happier than Fog and Ice. As if that was a struggle.

**July 5th, 2267**

 

The ruins of Vegas sure were a weird sight.

Hank had traveled all over, but he’d never seen buildings like that before. The closest was probably New Reno, but even that wasn’t quite the same. The casinos there weren’t as tall, as intact. Couldn’t be seen from this distance, miles away. Hank couldn’t even begin to imagine how the city had looked in the pre-war days, all lit up.

He stared through the binoculars at the buildings in the distance, a stark silhouette against the orange of the sky, before focusing on their surroundings. He could see the telltale smoke of a few other camps, and many of them were clustered around those tall, old-world casinos. He knew that place was a hub of other tribes and gangs fighting for dominance. But they’d never met Hank’s tribe. They’d never met the Great Khans.

The Khans were a completely different level of tough compared to any other gang. The fact that they’d had to leave the west didn’t mean shit. NCR was too big, too numerous. One-on-one, those bitches wouldn’t stand a chance. And Hank was one of the Khan’s best. That’s why he and his war party were scouting out Vegas before the rest of the tribe moved forward.

At thirty-nine, Hank was one of the more imposing members of the gang. Tall, with shaggy blond hair tied back messily. A mass of muscle and scars, the scars collected over decades of raiding, fighting and providing for his crew. These only emphasized by the open leather vest, something that all adult Khans--anyone who’d passed their initiation--wore, with his being decorated in more patches than most to show off all the cool shit he’d done in the past. Also like the other Khans, he wore very little armor. Only some leather plating on the legs, done in a layered style that was unique to the Khans as far as they’d seen. Someone had said it was ‘Mongolian.’ Hank didn’t have a fucking clue what that meant.

He heard a thump as someone flopped down into the dirt next to him, staring at the buildings too.

“What’s with the dick tower?”

“Not a fucking clue,” Hank grunted, giving Gavin a brief glance before returning his attention to said tower. The most obvious of the casinos in the distance, rising tall above the others. “Guess some old world guy had a lot to prove.”

“What a loser. Well, whatever, he’s dead now.”

Youngest member of his war party, in his early twenties, Gavin had fewer scars but the ones he did were more obvious. That was partially his own fault. Idiot had refused to clean the one across his nose after his initiation, one that had been caused by Hank smashing his boot into it. Smaller but stockier, the kid was a ball of violent energy but he did good work if Hank could keep him under control. Real good with his fists, if the submachine gun didn’t do it before they got in close. His vest was a lot plainer than Hank’s, since he’d only had a few years since his initiation to rack up any victories as opposed to Hank’s couple of decades.

“Think we’re good here for the night,” Hank said. “Got a good view, and no-one else is keeping out of sight. Long as we keep watch, no-one’s getting the drop on us and they won’t get in close. Fire’s good.”

“Cool, because I’m fuckin’ starving. That brahmin ain’t cooking itself.” Gavin scrambled up again from the dirt and moved back towards where the others were camped. Hank remained where he was, still staring through the binoculars.

He didn’t much like the idea of holing up close to those buildings. They might have some sweet shit in them, but they’d be crowded. And there’d be no getting the Khan’s tents into them. But it’d be hard to tell until they were close. Until they saw where was occupied by who. All sorts of rumors had floated to them on the trip there.

There was an annoyed shout from back at the camp.

“Hey! Who the fuck took my steak? Bitch, that one was mine! I had dibs!”

Hank rolled his eyes, lowering the binoculars before returning to the campfire. He found Gavin and Tina, another one of his younger war party members, crouched over where they’d been slicing up the brahmin they’d stolen from a traveler on the road. The big, lumbering animals were damn fine meals when they could be gotten, although this one was a bit on the stringy side. Gavin was gesturing angrily at where they’d been putting the slabs of meat for that night’s dinner.

“Who the fuck ate them? The fire’s not even started yet!” Gavin complained. “Fucking weirdos. No-one respects dibs anymore.”

Before he could complain any further, there was the faintest glimpse of movement on the periphery of the camp. Hank’s head jerked up and he immediately reached for his shotgun. Gavin and Tina, noticing the shift, immediately turned around. As they did, the movement because quicker. Hank spotted a figure, clutching a bundle of the dripping red brahmin meat, fleeing into the ruins. Thin and dressed in ragged clothes.

Fuck. Just had to be some starving wastelander looking for food. Hank hated it when that was the case. If it was an asshole in armor trying to bully them, that was fine. Hank had no trouble hurting or killing anyone like that.

“Catch them, but keep them alive,” Hank grunted quickly. “You two try and flank him, I’ll grab the others in case there’s danger out there.”

Gavin grinned while Tina nodded, both of them reaching for their own guns.

“Alive, Gavin!” Hank emphasized.

“I got it, I got it! Asshole took my food, he ain’t getting away easy.”

The two of them slipped off into the nearby ruins that scattered the wasteland, while Hank gathered up two other members of the war party, alerting yet another two on what was happening so they knew to keep a closer watch. There really wasn’t much else to steal. Khans kept anything important on their person.

Honestly, they could have let the wastelander run without being left out. They still had a lot of meat left. But it was the principal of the thing. Nobody takes from the Khans. That meant weakness. That meant others would come. They had to teach the wastelander a lesson.

It was easy to follow the wastelander, even traveling a little behind as Hank was doing. The blood from the meat was still dripping, leaving easily followable speckles on the ground. Occasionally, Hank caught glimpses of Gavin or Tina moving. But more often, he saw a slight flutter of rags as the wastelander slipped in and out of cover. Moving quick, moving with ease and practice, but not quite good enough.

Goddammit, the wastelander looked young. Barely an adult, if that. Hank hoped they wouldn’t have to hurt him too much.

It was a fairly lengthy chase. They needed to learn the terrain better to catch the thief quicker, but every time they thought they’d lost him they’d see just a flicker of movement. It was so close to losing the thief each time.

The back of Hank’s neck prickled uncomfortably. A bad feeling he couldn’t quantify. But just as it started to creep in, the thief made a misstep. Backing into what turned out to be a dead end. A mostly-collapsed building that still had enough walls to remain standing, for all that the roof was entirely exposed, and a door that was mostly caved in. The thief had tried to squeeze his way through the gap in the caved door, just barely unable to, and Gavin and Tina caught up to him first.

When Hank arrived, Gavin was already lashing out with his fists. Hank caught the second punch before Gavin could go far.

“What’d I say?” Hank growled at him.

“This isn’t killing!” Gavin protested.

Tina had rope on hand, looped through the belt of her denim shorts, and she raised an eyebrow at Hank before gesturing at it, then at the thief. The thief, once captured, had yet to try to struggle away. Sitting in the dirt quietly, not looking up. But it didn’t hurt to be careful.

“Yeah. Tie him up while I figure this out,” Hank said. Tina nodded, kneeling and jerking the kid’s arms behind his back before starting to bind them with expert knots. They’d done this before. Better to bind than to kill when possible.

The thief said nothing. He slowly looked up at Hank. Thin and covered in rags, he was pale for a wastelander. Dark brown hair and darker eyes. The sort of features that meant it was lucky that Hank didn’t deal with slavers, because he could tell at a glance that the kid--Hank would place him at maybe seventeen or eighteen--would sell high. No gun strapped to his waist. Overall, he just looked too harmless to have survived on his own.

Hank crouched in front of him, staring him down. But he kept his shotgun out and very visible, resting on one of his shoulders. Gavin and Tina moved around to flank him, their own weapons out.

“Where’s your crew? Your family?” Hank asked him.

The thief said nothing.

“Hey! He asked you a question,” Gavin said, reaching out with one hand and giving the thief a sharp prod on his right temple. The thief jerked his head away at the prod, looking back down again.

“We’re not gonna kill them. But if you don’t tell us, it’s gonna be worse for you,” Hank said quietly.

The thief wriggled slightly, trying to shift back from them, but Gavin lashed out with his foot and kicked him onto his back instead, pinning the kid’s tied arms underneath him. This got a quiet whimper, but overall the kid was taking this pretty well.

Hank squinted at him, once again reaching out to catch Gavin before he lashed out again. “Hold up.”

“Why? You soft because he’s pretty?”

Hank shot Gavin a glare before motioning at him to back off. Gavin rolled his eyes and did so, but he gave the thief a grin and tapped his fingers on his submachine gun pointedly.

Shifting around, Hank pushed the kid back into a sitting position before looking to examine the bindings Tina had done. Good work, tight but not cruelly so. Hank gripped the thief’s arms and dug a finger under the ropes, looking at the skin underneath. Faint scars. The sort that came from bad rope work. The kind that Tina didn’t do, and even if she did it wouldn’t have left scars yet.

“Got caught before?” Hank muttered.

The thief had tensed up slightly but was still not responding. Hank let go of him and he wriggled slightly away, cringing from the touch. Could be an escapee. Would explain the rags.

“If you escaped from a bad crew, we won’t send you back. Might even murder them for you if they’re assholes. But you gotta tell us, and you gotta tell us where they are,” Hank said, rounding back to the front. “Or do you want to upset the jackass over there?”

He nodded his head at Gavin, who grinned wider despite the insult. Someone had once told them that this routine was called 'good cop, bad cop' but to be honest Hank had no idea what a cop was either.

The thief kept his eyes averted, occasionally trying to wiggle a little away if Gavin shifted too close. But still saying nothing. Hank sighed, giving Gavin a sidelong glance. Raised a finger. One hit.

Gavin used his chance to turn around his gun and crack the thief in the face with the butt of his gun. There was a nasty crunch as the kid’s nose caved in. More brutal than what Hank had wanted. But if the kid still stayed quiet, it was enough that Hank could probably let him go like that. A warning to anyone else who thought they could steal from the Khans.

The thief let out a very short, choked noise. Blood was now streaming from his nose, trickling down his chin and dripping onto the rags. He wriggled a little more away from Gavin, though the movement mostly just made his arms shift a little against the ropes. Hank, having never heard of gun safety in his life and not much caring for it regarding hostages, raised his shotgun and used the barrel to tilt the kid’s head up so he could see the damage.

Broken nose. Not what drew Hank’s attention. It was the look in the kid’s eyes, easier to see with his face tilted up like this. He was putting effort into averting his gaze. But the gaze itself? It wasn’t one of fear. And looking down, there was no trembling in this kid. Only overt movements to show submission and fear.

Looking at him like this, looking close at the subtleties, the kid actually looked… disinterested.

It clicked.

Bait.

“Ambush! Get to cover!” Hank bellowed. His hand lashed out to grab the thief by the neck, jerking him forward and keeping the gun to his jaw. Eyes sweeping the walls, the broken roof, the caved door. Boxed in. Fuck, he was supposed to know better than this.

And just seconds after, his eyes scanning the gaps, there was a quiet ‘phwut’ noise. One that he might not have even noticed if he hadn’t been on high alert. Gavin suddenly stumbled back. Blinking rapidly, one hand reaching upwards. There was a dart stuck in his neck, perfectly aimed.

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

“Cover, goddammit!” Hank yelled, pulling the thief with him and utilizing him as a human shield. He saw a glint of metal from atop one of the walls before the shooter ducked out of sight. Hank moved against the wall, keeping the thief in front of him as an impromptu human shield.

At least until he felt something sharp press against his stomach. And saw the scraps of Tina’s ropes fall to the ground at the same time.

Fuck.

“You shouldn’t pull that trigger. If you don’t, your chances of living increase dramatically,” the thief said pleasantly, like there wasn’t a shotgun barrel jammed against his jaw. Like he didn’t have a combat knife pressed to Hank’s skin.

“Big words.”

“It’s a warning. Nines would not take my death well.”

As he gave this warning, there was another phwut. This time, the dart buried itself in the ground. Tina had ducked, and was now grabbing Gavin to pull him to cover. Gavin was still on his feet, firing up at where the glint of metal had come from, but his movements were noticeably clumsy.

Hank caught a glimpse of the one firing the darts. He looked almost identical to the thief, although perhaps a tiny bit older and wearing armor that was largely made of spikes and straps, designed to look intimidating and like he was ready to kill something. He was ducking out regularly to fire, ducking back to avoid the rain of bullets. Perhaps that was Nines. Perhaps it was someone else.

Gunshots hailed from outside, causing Hank’s head to jerk that way. There were more of them. He was distracted, and the thief took his chance. White-hot pain spasmed across his chest as the thief slashed with the knife before wrenching free of Hank’s grip. The slash itself was shallow, but the pain didn’t abate. It was quickly followed by a strange, shaky tremble that spread to the tips of Hank’s fingers.

Kid had poisoned his blade. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not lethally, because this was a poison that Hank was vaguely familiar with. Accurately called ‘tremble,’ it just made everything weak and sluggish. Hank turned and aimed his shotgun, well as he could, and thanked his lucky sunset sarsaparilla stars that he’d brought something with spread.

Even so, it wasn’t enough. The barrel was shaking all over the place, and the thief moved fast. Faster than he had when leading them here, bolting back for the caved in door. The one he’d been caught while trying to unsuccessfully struggle through, but now he gave part of the collapsed wood a good kick and it opened immediately, camouflaged but easily passable. He slipped through the gap and was quickly out of sight.

Fuck.

Well, bigger problems. Bigger problems like the darts still raining down. Gritting his teeth at the shaky burn flood through his body, Hank aimed the shotgun up as well as he could at the shooter (Nines?) and fired once, twice. Bolting towards Gavin and Tina as he did so, trying to keep Nines back enough that he could make it through.

When he got there, the two were crouched behind some collapsed rubble, trying to minimize the target. Tina had her gun drawn, and was keeping an eye out the door they’d come through while Hank focused on Nines. Gavin, on the other hand, looked… not great.

“Hey! Stay with me, dipshit. What’d they get you with?” Hank asked, lightly slapping Gavin in the face to get his attention. He was just half-slumped over his gun, eyelids partially closed.

“‘M sleepy,” he grunted.

“Oh my god, you can’t nap on the battlefield. Come on.” Hank lowered his shotgun in order to sling Gavin’s arm over his shoulders, yanking him to his feet. “Keep them behind cover, Tina, you good?”

Tina nodded quickly, raising her rifle and firing a few rounds up high, following behind Hank as he lugged Gavin along.

As they bolted for the door, the darts stopped. Hank cast a glance up to see if it was due to the covering fire and caught a glimpse of the thief climbing up to join Nines. Nines’ immediate response was to stop firing, put down his gun and grasp the thief by the face. Clearly checking on the broken nose that Gavin had given him. Face impassive but concern evident, even as the thief batted away the hands with annoyance, a clear protest that now was not the time.

Even if Hank had the steadiness to properly aim, it would have felt like cheating to fire in that moment. Either Tina felt the same or didn’t see the need to waste bullets, because she slowed her own bullets down as they escaped outside.

The remaining two Khans that Hank had brought with him were firing at other fighters that were taking cover in the ruins, scattered about in a way that suggested a formation which had only been half-formed. Looking at the locations around them, Hank could see good places for observation. For sniping. For putting a quiet dart in each and every one of them. Places that they just hadn’t been able to reach in time.

“Keep down!” one of the Khans yelled at Hank, nodding his head at an empty spot besides his current bit of shelter.

“That’s the plan,” Hank grunted, crouching and letting Gavin rest a little on the wall. His eyes were slipping shut, he was clearly on the edge of passing out. Hank hoped whatever shit had been in the darts wasn’t lethal. He had a feeling that it wasn’t, if the thief tinting his knife with tremble rather than a lethal venom was a sign, but who knew.

Glancing out, he could see other figures. All wore similar spiky or strappy armor. Two of the figures that Hank could see stood out, though.

The first was for the reason that he clearly matched the other two. Same brown hair and pale skin, and he looked to be the same age as the thief. Nines heavily resembled the thief, but this one was identical apart from the differing clothes and something of a faint, sadistic smile on his face as he aimed over his piece of cover.

But the other one that stood out, far enough behind cover that it would be near impossible to get a good shot on her, but just visible enough for Hank to see, was noticeable for the fact that she was the only one wearing something over the spiked armor. A fluttering, oddly white poncho. She was calling out orders that couldn’t be heard from where they were, and everything about her spoke of a calm, icy confidence.

“How many?” Hank asked.

“I’ve counted seven.”

Hank grimaced. “So nine including the other two. No, we’re running.”

“We could take them,” one of the other Khans protested.

“Hey, if it was just a plain five on nine, sure. We’re tough. But Gavin’s basically down--” Hank gave him a slight shake to exemplify the point, and Gavin just mumbled under his breath in response, eyes shut. “And they got me with tremble. I ain’t hitting any of them for shit. You three think you can finish them without getting hit?”

Hank raised his shotgun and fired, missing wildly as predicted but forcing one of them back into cover.

“We’re boxed in. If we’re fighting them, we’re doing it on our terms.” Hank fired again. As he did, he squinted at the woman giving the orders. Faces snapped back to her regularly. “Split up, circle around, get back to camp. They’ll have to split from her, it might fuck up the orders.”

Most crews didn’t know how to operate well in small groups, and got haphazard and sloppy when separated from the leadership. Hank hoped this crew was the same.

Hank pulled Gavin properly onto his back in an impromptu piggy back ride, putting the shotgun away so he could switch to his sidearm, a hunting revolver. He wouldn’t be able to hit anything for shit and it wouldn’t have as good a spread, but he could at least fire it one-handed without his wrist fucking dying from the recoil. Kept a grip on Gavin in the meantime.

“Scatter!”

With that, Hank bolted. Firing somewhat wildly in the direction of the attackers, he fled into the ruins. Told himself this wasn’t a retreat. They were just advancing towards future victories. Dumb, but it made him feel better.

Footsteps could be heard chasing him. And even as the ruins rose around him, he still heard footsteps. They quickly became fewer. But they didn’t fade entirely. Hank ran, somewhat but not vastly slowed by the weight of Gavin over his shoulders, more concerned by the shake that remained in his legs, wondering how long they could remain for.

Then some of the footsteps, scraping across rough ground, took on a different sound. Wooden. Moving higher. One of them was moving into the surrounding buildings, running somewhere with wooden floors. Hank saw a flicker of movement and his head jerked up.

Mistake. Should have looked where he was going. His already-clumsy foot caught on one of the many chunks of debris scattering the ruins.

Hank hit the floor hard, rolling to a rough stop in the dirt. He dropped Gavin in the process. Kid was completely out for the count, tumbling face forward into the dirt and not moving. Hank started to clamber to his feet, but his eyes were still on where he’d seen movement. He started to raise his gun.

It was the thief, now crouched on one of the nearby ruins. Slightly elevated ground. Holding a rifle and stone-faced, even despite the still-bloody and broken nose, as he took aim squarely at Hank. Didn’t seem so harmless anymore

The thief stared him down as Hank pointed the revolver back, shifting towards Gavin to scoop him back up again. He’d been the one to dose Hank with tremble. He would know Hank couldn’t aim for shit.

Hank was absolutely fucked. He could run, could leave Gavin to the thief’s mercy. But that wasn’t how the Great Khans worked. So Hank was just plain fucked.

But the kid didn’t immediately shoot. Noises of battle echoed in the distance, and the kid’s head twitched slightly to the side, although he didn’t move his stare from Hank.

Then he shifted the barrel of his rifle just barely to the right and fired.

The dart missed so closely that Hank felt it graze his ear.

The thief, still otherwise stone faced, winked at him.

The message was clear.

Hank didn’t question it. He lowered the revolver, scooped up Gavin and fled.

That was his first encounter with Amanda’s gang. It would be far from the last time the two tribes came into conflict. And it would certainly not be the last time he met Connor.

 

* * *

 

 

**January 16th, 2280**

 

Thirteen years had passed. The ruins of Vegas had changed drastically.

Largely, most of the city remained the same. Clusters of old buildings, not as damaged as those further out in the wastes, but still largely ruins and crumbled debris. But nowadays Vegas had become something akin to civilization.

Much of New Vegas was a slum known to the locals as Freeside. It was kind of a shithole. Dangerous enough that quite a few people made a comfortable--if somewhat chancy--living escorting tourists from one end of Freeside to the other, protecting them from the numerous packs of thugs that still roamed the place. Freeside was still something of a step up from what it’d once been, though. It had a working water pump, a fort of doctors, teachers and scientists trying to make the place better, and a gang of guys impersonating some old world king who were determined to try and keep the peace (mostly.)

But Freeside was just the shell encircling the golden egg that was the Strip. A wall sharply divided the slums of Freeside from the neon paradise where tourists came from all over to throw away their money.

Get by the armed robot that guarded the entrance--either through passing a credit check or through some shadier forgeries--and you came out onto a street that was surrounded by lights. The tower that had always been visible from miles around now glowed, a beacon of the Old World. The old casinos that had once been dim, trashed curiosities were now open for business. And while most of the tribes and gangs had been pushed out of Vegas when Kamski appeared to rule, there were three gangs that had been allowed to remain.

Only if they gave up their way of life, however, and played to the rules of the mysterious ruler of New Vegas. If they gave up their rags and hides and put on suits, and mimicked parts of the Old World that Kamski was nostalgic for. Three gangs that had now become the Three Families.

Amanda’s gang was one of them.

Now they were called the Omertas. Now they dressed in suits and dealt in the goods that appealed to every base need under the sun, taking caps through business rather than through ambush and murder.

Well. Less of it, at least.

It was in the Omerta’s casino, Gomorrah, that Connor waited. Playing with an old coin, a type of pre-war currency that was a rare novelty at most these days. He leaned on the railings of the indoor balcony, looking down over the main section of the Brimstone section of the club.

Gone were the rags that he’d worn thirteen years ago, serving as bait for Amanda’s ambushes. Gone too were the spiky leathers that their family had once worn. Now they wore clothes that were intimidating in a different way. Suits that were almost unstained, a rarity for the wasteland. Most of the Omertas wore suits of off-white stripes, the only exceptions being Connor, his brothers and Amanda herself. Connor preferred his suit plain and a dark blue. It made it easier to hide the stains that often came in his line of work.

Connor liked the suits. The rest of their current way of life, though… He watched over the Brimstone club with a frown so faint that only those who knew him well would even notice it. 

Gomorrah was easily the sleaziest of the three casinos. The other casinos got to have at least a touch of class. They got to have gourmet food or musical acts. But Gomorrah was a mass of cheap, satin sheets, metal poles and cages, and people--men and women, mostly human but with the occasional ghoul--dancing in minimal and mostly leather-based clothing underneath bright lights.

Every room in Gomorrah was designed to fill at least one vice, usually multiple. This area of the bar was popular because it was designed for the four big ones. Alcohol and drugs--both were sold by the bartender at the back of the club. Gambling, fulfilled by the slot machines lining one side. And, of course, the one that most people came to Gomorrah for. The reason that their signage largely consisted of curvy neon women splayed out in suggestive positions.

Connor rolled the coin over his knuckles, giving the dancer on stage a cursory and clinical glance. A newer dancer. He didn’t know her name. Not run-down like many of the others Gomorrah had. He quickly moved his gaze on to the patrons. Working here meant seeing a lot of people dancing on stages, grinding against each other in the tents in the courtyard, or having to pass through the ‘party rooms’ that didn’t understand that maybe a party could just be some snacks and conversation instead of an orgy.

It was like eating the same meal every day. No matter how good Fancy Lad snack cakes were, consuming them every day made the taste wear thin.

So Connor watched the patrons. His focus was on one in particular. A man in a stained, grey t-shirt and chin-length dark hair, who was sitting at one of the tables closest to the stage and staring hard at the dancer as she worked her hips. He was a regular. His name was Troike. Connor watched him and waited.

He had memorized this man’s patterns, and Troike played to them as perfectly as usual. Watched the dancer until five minutes before she was to get back off stage and start making solicitations instead. Then he would go to bartender and he would order three things. Whiskey, and two drugs called Buffout and Jet. Troike was a man of habit, and it made Connor’s job almost annoyingly easy.

True to form, nearing the end of her shift on stage, Troike stood up and moved towards the bar. The bartender saw him coming, and looked up to the balcony where Connor watched from the upper floor.

Connor gave him a brief nod. The bartender looked back at Troike, and reached slightly to the left under the counter of where he stored most of the Jet and Buffout. He sold Troike the goods, then returned to work.

Only minutes later, the dancer finished up her routine and left the stage, with another dancer--this one ghoulified, for a more niche audience--taking her place. Troike immediately headed for her. Connor watched him barter, trying to get himself the cheapest lay possible, before the two of them left the bar. Connor stopped playing with the coin and slipped it into his jacket pocket, before turning and walking towards the corridors where the rentable rooms were clustered. He knew which one Troike had rented for the night. He breezed past other employees and tourists on the way. 

One of the employees, yet another dancer and prostitute for Gomorrah, caught his eye and tilted his head slightly with a puzzled, nervous squint. Clearly trying to ascertain whether Connor was himself or whether he was Sixty. It was well-known that, if any employee wanted a favor, Connor was the easiest to get it from. Although Nines was reasonable, he was also difficult to negotiate with. And Sixty was… well, Sixty.

Connor retrieved the coin from his pocket again and gave it a quick roll over his knuckles, and the employee’s face slightly relaxed, recognising it as a Connor-specific quirk. Connor mouthed ‘later’ at him and the employee nodded, returning to their post. Connor would come back once his job was done, and check that all was as well as it could be.

He walked along, past room after room. Largely blocking out the rather obscene noises that came from many of them. Finally, he came to Troike’s room. 

Giving a casual glance around, Connor then stepped closer to the door and tilted his head slightly towards it. He could hear noises. Giggling. Terrible dirty talk. The general sounds of sub-standard coitus. Connor turned and leaned against the door, keeping within earshot, and continued to play with the coin. Waiting not for any particular noise, but for an absence of it.

The sounds continued for some time. Then they slowed rather abruptly, before coming to a complete stop. There was a pause, then a distinct ‘what the fuck?’

The cue.

Connor put the coin away again, straightened his tie, then turned around and knocked on the door three times.

“Open up. Omerta business,” he said, a quiet but steady demand.

He heard a hiss and a whispered “Oh shit” before the girl responded properly. “Oh, uh… yeah! Just a second!”

There was a quick sound of sheets being ruffled, followed by footsteps shuffling to the door before the dancer pulled it open. She’d given some attempt towards modesty and had wrapped one of the red sheets around herself quickly. Definitely a newer employee. Most of the others wouldn’t have bothered, knowing that modesty was irrelevant in a casino that functioned more heavily as a brothel.

“I didn’t do anything to him!” she said breathlessly. Her pupils were blown. Troike must have shared his Jet with her.

“I know. May I come in?”

“Of course, of course, uh… yeah!” She stepped aside, waving her hand vaguely as Connor walked inside.

One of the many smaller rooms of Gomorrah, all cheap, red sheets and tacky carpeting in an attempt to give the place some sense of intimacy. Troike was splayed on the bed, naked and still at half-mast despite the fact that he’d passed out completely. Mouth dangling open as he drooled in his sleep.

Connor examined him for a moment, then looked around for where he’d tossed his clothes.

“How did this happen?” he asked.

“I don’t… I don’t know. He just passed out. It was fast, too. And Jet and Buffout don’t do that, you know? I mean, Jet kind of does but it takes a while, and Buffout… Buffout shouldn’t have done that. Maybe it was the whiskey, or… I don’t know,” the girl mumbled, shaking her head.

“Perhaps,” Connor said, crouching to check the pockets of Troike’s pants. He felt something hard and metallic, and palmed it in his hand without letting the dancer see it. “Have you checked his pulse? Is he alive?”

“I, um… maybe?” The dancer looked at Troike for a moment, hands recoiling. “I don’t really want to touch a corpse…” But then she gave Connor a look--one of fear, because even if Connor was reasonable by Omerta standards, it was just common knowledge that you didn’t make an Omerta ask twice. “Okay, just.. Hold on a moment.”

She approached the body, then reached out to check Troike’s wrist. As she did, Connor straightened up and removed his suit jacket, folding it and placing it far away from the bed and the dancer where it wouldn’t get stained. Then he slowly walked over to where the dancer was leaning over Troike, checking his pulse while trying to touch him as little as possible.

“I… think he’s alive?” she said uncertainly. “His pulse is a bit out there, but it’s there.”

“Good. Amanda wouldn’t have been happy with him dying.”

Then, quickly and calmly, Connor’s hand snapped out to cover the dancer’s mouth, twisting her head to the side uncomfortably in the process. The other hand flicked open the switchblade that Connor had found in Troike’s pants as Connor jerked her so she was more properly facing Troike, muffling the terrified screech. The sheet dropped as she clawed her hands up, trying to yank him off her.

“I’m sorry. It’s nothing personal,” Connor told her gently.

With that, he gripped her head tighter and slashed open her throat. With the way she was facing, the arterial spray largely splattered all over Troike.

Connor kept his grip tight as she continued to struggle, the movements rapidly getting weaker with blood loss, until her arms stopped clawing upwards and sagged, flopping to her sides as she slumped. As she sagged to the floor, blood still streaming from her throat, Connor gently lowered her down and laid her on the bed, turning her over so that he could examine his work. Staring at Troike, the dancer and the bloodstained bed with a clinical eye.

Hmm. It was messy. The murder could potentially be recognised as having been done by a third party, if someone really looked at the direction of the spray. But experts were few and far-inbetween, and Troike certainly wasn’t one of them. The only issue was that the slashed throat was too precise. Too deliberate to be passed off as something that occured in a drugged-up rage.

Connor tilted his head, gazing at the slashed throat, before twirling the knife once in his hands thoughtfully.

He’d have to fix that.

Connor carefully shifted Troike aside, hoping he wouldn’t wake up in the meantime--but with what the bartender had spiked his Buffout with, it was unlikely--before getting back to work with the switchblade. First digging the switchblade back into her throat and ruining it further, with more jagged wounds, before then proceeding to deliver several stab wounds to her body, mostly clustered around the torso. Pulling from memories of what Sixty had done to the occasional useless wastelander back in their tribal days. Making this look like a malicious act of animalistic rage and sadism. 

Afterwards, he shifted Troike back and half-draped him over the dead dancer, and left the bloody switchblade near his hand.

His shirt was speckled in blood. Connor picked up his suit jacket and put it back on, largely hiding the speckles from view so that he could go back to his room and change before he was needed once more.

He walked away to deal with more mundane concerns until Troike woke up.

 

* * *

Connor was in the middle of staring at their supplies of alcohol and cataloging what they were running low of when another Omerta entered the stockroom, making a beeline for him.

“We got a problem. Room 15, seems like Troike killed one of our girls. We got him under guard, but--”

“I will handle it. I’m nearly done here,” Connor said mildly, writing down the number of vodka bottles and starting to move on to the whiskey.

“I wouldn’t wait if I were you. Sixty’s up there, too.”

Connor’s mouth pulled back in the slightest grimace. “Ah. I’ll head right there. Can you finish this and take the list up to Nines?”

After handing over the stock list, Connor walked briskly back to Troike’s room. He heard some crashing noises long before he actually entered.

Most of the room was in the same state he’d left it in. Dancer on the bed. Blood everywhere. But now three others stood in the room. One was examining the scene more carefully, eying the drugs on the bedside table and the state of the corpse. Another standing guard over Troike, still naked, who was now curled up in the corner, recoiling from the third figure. The third figure was Sixty, who was standing over Troike. Identical in every way to Connor, right down to the clothing.

Well, apart from one minor detail regarding his attire. Connor’s mouth twitched further into what almost approached a frown as he saw what Sixty was wearing on his hand. Most Omertas--Connor, Nines and Amanda included--used guns as their primary weapons. They’d largely discarded the dart guns now that ambushes weren’t a necessary part of their life, but shotguns, revolvers and submachine guns remained in their repertoire. Knives were used when guns weren’t.

But Sixty liked using his fists. And the armored gauntlet on his hand--something that he’d poured a lot of caps into acquiring--was made to make his fist hurt as much as possible. Not only was it metal, but it contained a wrist-mounted shotgun of all things. If he swung too hard with that and set off the gun, Troike would likely explode into a bloody mess.

Sixty glanced at Connor as he approached, tilted his head slightly, then looked back to Troike before crouching in front of him.

“You want to tell my brother what you just told me?” Sixty asked. His voice was even, except for just a hint of cheerful smugness. As he asked, he slowly reached out and gave Troike the lightest tap on the cheek with the knuckles of his armored fist, the barrel of the wrist-mounted shotgun brushing against the skin lightly. Troike recoiled, eyes shut.

“I didn’t… I blacked out, I didn’t… I don’t know what happened!” Troike choked out. “She… I didn’t… I didn’t mean to--”

“You didn’t mean to bring a weapon into our casino and murder one of our girls? You just stumbled into it?” Sixty pressed the knuckles a little closer again, just barely light enough to avoid triggering the gun. “Give me a reason not to kill you right now, Troike.”

Connor reached out and gently tugged Sixty’s wrist away from Troike. “That’s enough, Sixty. Let him breathe. And let him put some underwear on. Allow him a little dignity.”

“He can have dignity when he’s earned it,” Sixty said shortly. He did lower the fist, but didn’t allow Troike to retrieve his clothes. He shifted aside, and Connor took his place. Kneeling in front of Troike but not getting into his space like Sixty had.

“Are you telling me this was a mistake?”

“I… I blacked out, I don’t… I didn’t… I was high, man,” Troike mumbled.

“Intent aside, this is not something we can easily forgive,” Connor told him gently.

“For fuck’s sake, man, I didn’t mean to--please, don’t… don’t… just let me go, man, I swear I won’t--”

“Troike, please calm down.”

“I’m calm! I’m calm… I can be calm…” Troike took a few deep breaths, looking down. His eyes caught the blood still coating his body and he immediately shut his eyes again, clasping his head. “Oh god, there’s so much of it!”

“Look at me. It’s going to be alright.” Connor offered him the smallest smile. “We can make this go away, Troike. No-one has to know and the Omertas will let you live. But you have to meet our price.”

Troike’s eyes flickered up. “...What price?”

“Our price. I just told you. What we ask for--whatever we ask for--there will not nor will there ever be any negotiating. You can take my deal.” Connor nodded his head towards Sixty. “Or you can take his.”

“Please take mine,” Sixty said, wearing a smile that was visually similar to Connor’s own but with an entirely different air about it. “Please.”

Troike’s eyes darted to Sixty, then back to Connor. Then he nodded quickly, taking a moment to summon the breath for words.

“Alright. Alright, whatever you want, just… just don’t kill me, and keep that asshole away from me.”

“Then we have an understanding.” Connor stood up and looked to the Omerta standing guard. “Give Troike another room, since he made a mess of this one. Make sure this room is clean within the day.” He glanced back down at Troike. “Feel free to continue residing here and using Gomorrah’s services. In fact, I’d advise against leaving. We might take that the wrong way. You understand, I’m sure.”

“Got it. Got it, I… yeah.”

Connor turned and left, with Sixty not far behind. He didn’t look at the dead dancer as he did so.

Neither of them said anything until they were some distance from the room before Sixty let out a low whistle.

“You sure made a fucking mess in there.”

“Job’s done. We don’t need to discuss it anymore.”

“Pity about the girl. You couldn’t have waited for a night with an uglier dancer?”

“Sixty. Enough,” Connor said sharply.

“Fine. Be squeamish,” Sixty grumbled.

Connor shook his head slightly, walking along while removing the coin from his pocket to play with it again. He needed to move his hands.

He knew this uneasiness, something that had come with the Omerta life. Connor liked the suits, and to a degree he like the planning phases of these sort of jobs. The puzzle that was figuring out the best way to get what he needed. Analyzing his targets and figuring out their weak points. That part was enjoyable. Much as it had been back in the wasteland, functioning as bait for Amanda’s ambushes. Looking at the targets and figuring out which approach to take.

But he’d be lying if he said that completing some of these jobs didn’t make him feel… itchy. Connor had ways of dealing with that itch, though.

“Can you tell Amanda that the job’s been completed and that Troike will be amiable to any deals from now on? I have other business to take care of.”

“Report to her yourself.”

“If you’re incapable of doing so--” Connor started.

“You’re the one who’s incapable. I’ll report in, since you’re too lazy to do it,” Sixty said in a slight huff. Connor had to suppress the smallest smile. Sixty was an annoyance, but it was very easy to get him to do anything. All Connor had to do was imply that he couldn’t, and Sixty would do it out of pure spite.

“Good. I’ll be back soon.”

With that, Connor turned and walked down a different corridor, heading downstairs to the main floor. He quickly passed through the area, past the gamblers who crowded around poker and blackjack tables. As with everywhere else, there were dancers. These ones suspended in cages higher up. Less emphasis on them than in the Brimstone club, but still letting the tourists know what Gomorrah sold. 

Connor moved through the crowds, deftly avoiding bumping into anyone, and gave a nod to the receptionist and the armed guard as he passed through the entranceway. The guard only giving a brief nod back, currently busy checking a couple of tourists over for weapons before allowing them entrance. With that, Connor pushed open the front doors and left the red-tinted interior of Gomorrah, entering into the Strip itself.

As usual, the street was just as crowded with tourists as Gomorrah was. Many of them were soldiers of the NCR--the New California Republic--and so there were a substantial amount of people in army green wandering about in varying states of inebriation. Connor took a few steps away from Gomorrah, with the name of the casino emblazoned in flaming letters and sidelined by curvy neon women, before drawing the coin and starting to play with it again. Gazing around to see if anything of note was happening.

He saw the usual. He saw the Lucky 38--a tower that he had once heard described as ‘dick-esque’ before he’d realised the item it was shaped like was a roulette wheel--looming over him, glowing so brightly that the entire wasteland could see it. Kamski’s home, apparently, not that anyone had ever been inside. He saw the other two casinos run by the other two groups of former tribals that had been allowed to remain on the Strip. The Ultra-Luxe sparkling with refinement and possessing the water fountain out front--in itself a display of decadence in a world where clean water was so rare--and the Tops glowing with yellow and red lights, with faint jazzy music drifting towards where Connor was standing.

And of course, there were the guards. The Strip didn’t have human guards. Instead, it had robots. 

Securitons--large, hulking robots that balanced on one wheel, with television screens embedded into their chests that depicted the faces of grumpy cartoon policemen. Not only were these robots large, towering over Connor, but their arms were equipped with inbuilt weaponry. A gatling laser in the left arm, and a 9mm submachine gun in the right. These were the robots that backed Kamski, and the reason why he could rule New Vegas without ever being seen. They rolled about, prodding along disorderly civilians and speaking with heavily processed voices.

The sight was commonplace to Connor now, but he couldn’t have even imagined it six years ago. He rolled the coin over his knuckles, then turned and started walking towards the south gate. The one that led into Freeside.

He stepped through the gate, the divide of the neon lights and the rustic surroundings of Freeside’s slums immediately evident. Before he could even take two steps, someone pushed by him. Someone in ragged clothes, likely a squatter in the slums.

“Unauthorized entry detected! Extermination imminent!” blared a processed voice before the Securitron guarding the entrance from the other side opened fire on the squatter.

Connor’s suit was immediately splattered in blood as the squatter was forcibly stopped from entering the Strip. Connor sighed lightly, wiping some of the red off his face, before walking away without a second glance. He wondered what the squatter had been expecting to accomplish.

From there, he started the trek to the southern part of Freeside. It was largely a straight road, filled with rubble and the occasional wrecked car. People paced the street. Some of them ragged locals. Some of them in sharper attire, leather jackets and often a substantial amount of hairgel--a local gang who called themselves ‘The Kings’ and had made it their job to keep the peace. Occasionally, Connor would see thugs lingering in the side roads, watching him with an appraising eye.

He hoped they’d attack. Maybe give him an honest fight that would get this itch out of his system. But they didn’t. So Connor kept walking.

Eventually, he passed by the Old Mormon Fort, took a side road and headed for a small bar that was tucked away on the edge of Freeside. Freeside had two bars, and the Atomic Wrangler was by far the more popular one. But this other bar, Jericho, was still regularly visited and had a calmer, more quaint air to it. Plus the owner was much more forthcoming about information.

Connor glanced up at the wooden, hand-painted sign that had ‘Jericho’ scrawled across it before entering the bar. It was nearly empty at that time of day, with only one or two locals milling about or drinking at the bar. Much of the furniture was mismatched, but in a way that came off as charmingly eclectic. There was an old piano in the corner, though it usually went unused. As far as Connor knew, Simon hadn’t yet found anyone who could actually play it.

Connor glanced at the guard--today it was a woman with plaited hair and a black jacket, armed with at least three guns that could be seen at a glance--before his gaze went to the bar. 

The face that stared back at him from the bar was, honestly, the stuff of nightmares. Although Simon had described himself as ‘okay-looking’ before the war, ghoulfication had not done him favors. 

His face was a craggy, rotten mess of flesh, leaving him looking like a corpse on its feet. He still had a few scraps of blond hair, but only wisps that had survived most of his scalp falling off over the last two hundred years. His eyes, however, were an unusually clear blue. Many ghouls had pale blue eyes, but generally as a side effect of heavy cataracts. 

Simon squinted at Connor with those eyes, in the middle of wiping the counter clean from where someone--likely the grey-haired patron slumped on the bar in front of him--had clearly spilt their whiskey.

“Oh god,” Simon muttered under his breath. Slightly louder, and clearly trying to keep a patient tone, he asked, “Which one are you?”

“I’m Connor.”

“...Okay.” Simon didn’t relax entirely. But he sighed and gestured for Connor to come over. “What is it this time? Are you here for Omerta business or just here for you?”

Connor approached, sitting down on one of the bar stools and clasping his hands together on the counter. “No small talk?”

Simon looked like he was already developing a stress-related migraine. “I would really rather just know what you’re here for. Especially if you’re going to leave any bodies on my floor again.”

“That only happened once.”

“Want me to throw him out?” the guard asked, hand drifting towards one of her smaller guns. Simon immediately put out his hand.

“No! It’s fine, North!” Slight note of panic in his voice. He must like this guard. Connor made a note to try not to shoot this one unless it was necessary. He liked Simon well enough, for all that Simon didn’t return that sentiment. Simon lowered his hand again, that rotted face crinkling in a way that might have been an expression of worry. It was hard to tell through all the decay. “What can I help you with?”

“I was looking for work. Any job as long as it’s quick and within walking distance. Caps aren’t particularly a concern.”

Simon nodded, mouth twisting a little. “Sorry. I’d help you if I could, but work’s dry at the moment. That’s why North’s here.” He nodded at the guard, who was now watching them talk with a close eye. “I’m the only one paying for casual contracts right now, and I don’t really have need of…” Simon hesitated before finishing with, “your particular set of skills.”

Connor tilted his head. “...Is that so?”

“It’s very so. So unless you’re planning on getting a drink--”

Simon was interrupted by the grey-haired drunkard resting his face on the bar knocking his knuckles against it.

“No. You’ve had enough. If you keep asking for more booze, I’m going to have to throw you out. I know the law won’t back me up in that anymore, but that’s how it works,” Simon told the drunkard patiently.

The drunkard gave an irritated, slurred groan, apparently too drunk to make words. The level of inebriation in that noise was not familiar. But something in the tone of it was.

Connor took a proper look at the man, leaning slightly to do so. Simon’s eyes flickered back to Connor before he took a step back, hands starting to fidget nervously. Connor tilted his head, trying to get a better look at the drunkard’s face.

“...Hank?” he asked slowly.

The drunk let out an indistinct noise in response, blearily looking slightly in Connor’s direction. Though his eyes were still unfocused and he looked on the edge of passing out, there was no mistaking that blue. No mistaking that face, even if it looked like it had aged twenty years in only six. Even if any trace of blond was gone and he had a more extensive beer gut than the last time Connor had seen him. Even if that Khan vest was gone, replaced by a different, less distinguishable sleeveless jacket over a white t-shirt.

Hank wavered slightly on his chair, then finally his eyes focused on Connor. There was a pause. Then that gaze focused in, sharp and angry.

“You!” Hank bellowed, before immediately swinging a fist at him.

Connor took a step back and Hank missed, collapsing on the floor in a heap. North got to her feet and started to approach as Simon covered his face and watched through his fingers. But there was no need for any further interference. Hank had seemingly exhausted his only burst of energy, and was now sleeping on the floor.

Simon sighed and looked at North. “Think you can take him back to the Fort? Josh’ll probably want him there while he sleeps it off.”

“I mean, it’s not exactly what you hired me for, but sure--”

“There’s no need,” Connor interrupted.

Simon lifted his hands slightly. “Connor, there’s no need for that. He was drunk. He didn’t mean it.”

“I’m not going to kill him. Do I look like Sixty to you?”

“...I mean. Yes. But I see your point. Seriously, though, don’t kill him. Just take him back to the Fort, they know him there.”

“How long has he been in Freeside for?” Connor asked. As he did, he reached down and started to sling one of Hank’s arms over his shoulders.

“He’s in and out. Sometimes he does work for the Followers. Mostly he just drinks.”

Connor pulled Hank to his feet with some effort, Hank mumbling under his breath but essentially dead to the world in this state. The stench of whiskey was so strong that it almost made Connor physically recoil.

“Nevermind about the work for now, Simon. I’ll come back later.” 

“Can’t wait,” Simon said dryly.

Connor lugged Hank out of the bar, as Hank continued to make the occasional barely-conscious protest. He didn’t head towards the Fort, although he knew that the Followers would be happy to help Hank recover from the hangover. Instead, he turned right back towards the Strip, casting another sideways glance at Hank as he did so. Noting all the parts of him that seemed worn out. It was a massive shift from the man he'd once known.  


“What happened to you?” Connor murmured under his breath, although it was more of a rhetorical question than anything. He knew a lot of things that had happened, even just through hearsay.

Still, any excuse to catch up was nice. Hopefully Hank wouldn’t throw more punches at him once he as sober.


	2. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank wakes up on the Strip for the first time in six years.
> 
> Thirteen years ago, Connor gives himself a mission that he's determined not to fail.

**January 16th, 2280**

 

Hank woke up with a splitting headache. Something that was a regular occurrence. Whatever day he didn't find a job to distract him tended to result in a bender. So did a lot of the ones that did.

Still, it wasn’t as bad as other days. The hangover was awful, but he wasn’t feeling any other wounds. Meant he hadn’t wandered into the Thorn and attempted gladiatorial combat against animals while wasted again. Granted, he always won despite the booze. But he also always woke up with various bite marks or puking up from some kind of venom.

Nonetheless, it was still balls.

Hank buried his face into the pillow he was lying face first on, wrapping the sheets around him more tightly. Then he paused. There was something different about the texture of these sheets. And no room in Freeside had so many pillows. He opened his eyes. After a moment, he sat up properly and stared around.

He had never seen this room before in his life. It was spacious, and utilized a fair bit of carpeting. Said carpet was not horrifically stained, unlike most carpets in the wasteland. The bed that Hank was lying on was a nest of pillows and sheets, and all of them were clean and nearly free of stains. All in all, this room was the strangest, most alien place that Hank had ever woken up hungover in and that was no small feat.

Hank slowly got to his feet, struggling to extricate himself from the sheets. Some of them were red and had a weird shiny tint to them, but others were of other colours and felt more akin to the usual sheets that Hank normally found in rented rooms. They also didn’t match the rest of the decor, giving Hank the impression that the owner had taken them from elsewhere. Still half-draped in sheets, Hank stumbled out of the room.

It only led to more confusion. Because wherever he was, it was fucking nice. 

Most places he’d slept in were at best either roomy but trashed to all hell, or small but halfway decent. This place was spacious, as the bedroom had been. There was a cushy sofa, and a shelf that had a lot of scavenged books that looked in decent condition. Hank’s fingers itched to pick them up, but that had to wait while he figured out where the hell he was. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the window. A large window designed to give the best view of the street below.

There was a sound coming from nearby. A sizzling noise that reminded him of being around the campfire. He looked around to see a door ajar, through which he could see the faintest glimpse of steam. He could also, now that he was out of the bedroom, hear quiet singing. Barely audible through the sizzling and not particularly tuneful. Although Hank was able to recognise the song since it played on most of the radio stations on constant loop.

“--rode a stranger one fine day. Hardly spoke to folks around him, didn't have too much to say.”

Fuck, that could wait. Hank turned away from the door, still more concerned with the window. He cast another glance around as he moved towards it, his eyes lingering on a dark blue suit jacket that had been draped over the sofa. He felt like he’d seen it before, but couldn’t place it. 

“No one dared to ask his business, no one dared to make a slip, the stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip…”

Hank reached the window, staring for a moment before pressing a hand against the glass.

The view was incredible. More importantly, it was almost familiar. Hank realised he had, indeed, been here before. 

But the last time he’d wandered any of the casinos on the Strip, they’d been dimmed and trashed to all hell. Last time he’d stared through a window like this, there had only been broken signs and pissed off gangs and tribals fighting for dominance. Not neon glowing bright and gamblers, either dressed well in suits and dresses or wearing the greenish-grey of those fucking bastards from the NCR, wandering the streets and taking in the sights.

It only made his hangover swell into a full-on migraine, which was not helped by the tuneless singing still quietly drifting from the other room.

Hank was back on the Strip for the first time in six years, and it was doing his head in. How the fuck had he gotten here? He didn’t have anywhere near enough caps on him to pass the credit check at the gates, nor did he have a passport. He couldn’t have gotten onto the Strip, even sober. Let alone as blackout drunk as he must have been.

So how the fuck--

“In this town there lived an outlaw by the name of Texas Red. Many men had tried to take him and that many men were dead.” There was a pause before the voice muttered, “Those many men were dead. Not that.”

...Oh goddammit fucking shit. Hank knew that voice, now that it was fussing over grammar.

Hank raised his other hand to massage his forehead, trying to push away the sharp pain lancing through his skull. Then he turned from the window and shuffled towards the ajar door, nudging it open to find himself in a kitchen. An actual, functional kitchen. Small, but clearly someone had struggled to get it clean.

In front of the stove, back towards him, Connor was staring down into a saucepan and prodding at some eggs. Lakelurk eggs, judging by the slightly fishy tint to the smell wafting through the kitchen. Wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a tie and pants that were dark blue, matching the suit jacket that had been draped over the sofa. He was bobbing his head slightly as he continued puzzling his way through the lyrics of ‘Big Iron.’

“He was vicious and a killer, though a youth of twenty four. And the notches on his pistol numbered one and nineteen more. One and nineteen more.” Connor tilted his head slightly in thought. “...Is that twenty? Twenty’s not that impressive, is it?”

Hank stared at him, completely dumbfounded and the headache only getting worse.

Eventually, Connor tilted his head a little more before realising Hank was there, properly turning to look at him. Age-wise, he looked a little older. Nothing drastic, but something different about the lines of the face. What was more noticeable was the lack of dirt staining his face. The lack of creases in his clothes. The tidiness to his hair instead of it being a mess, although there was that one lock that he’d never been able to push back. 

Different. Yet there was no mistaking him. (Well, maybe there was--Hank had confused him with his twin before--but this didn’t feel like one of those times.) No mistaking those brown eyes and that same almost-smile.

“Evening,” Connor said. “I made some eggs. Traditionally more of a breakfast food, I’m told. But Sixty said they help with hangovers.”

Hank stared at him for a few more long moments.

“Nope,” he finally said, before closing the door and stumbling right back to the bedroom. Locking the door and then faceplanting right back onto the bed.

He was not fucking dealing with this right now.

 

* * *

 

 

**July 6th, 2267**

 

“Hold still.” 

This was followed by a nasty crack, as Nines did his best at pushing Connor’s nose back into place. It was not a pleasant sensation. As Nines worked on fixing Connor the best he could, Sixty sat nearby and watched, lounging on the scavenged mattress that served as a patient bed despite the fact that he was uninjured.

“I could help,” he said.

“No, Sixty,” Nines said flatly, as he rummaged through what few first-aid supplies they had. They had some stimpaks, but stimpaks were kept for more severe situations. They were also given only to those who deserved them, and Connor was not in that category today. Yesterday, he would have been. But he was at fault for the ambush going wrong.

It was just past midnight, and they’d only recently returned to camp from the failed ambush. It was near-unheard of for them to come back with not a single captive, or at least without the bodies to explain why they had none. They hadn’t lost any of their own people, but it had been a bad raid. 

If it had gone well, everyone would have gotten into position and shot every one of the targets with a sedative before they’d even known anyone else was there.

It was Connor’s job to get them into position. Since he’d failed, looking out the tent entrance of Nines’ makeshift infirmary and seeing that white poncho fluttering in the night’s breeze was giving him chills had had nothing to do with the cold air.

Amanda didn’t like failure. 

She had yet to say anything about it. Had yet to direct a word in Connor’s direction. Right now she was just standing near the fire, watching the flames silently while the others walked around attending to business. Her back was to Connor. Connor knew that she didn’t approach people about their failures. They had to come to her. Or be dragged there by someone else.

Connor’s eyes flickered to Nines, as Nines poured water onto a rag to try and clean the blood off Connor’s face. The water was a dirty brown, but they didn’t have any choice in the matter. Purified water was a luxury in these parts.

“I need to talk to Amanda,” Connor said.

“It can wait until I’m done,” Nines said firmly. Nines was the only one who would dare to keep Amanda waiting, perhaps because he didn’t fail. Even at nineteen, he was already fast-approaching being Amanda’s right hand.

“I must insist,” Connor said. Amanda probably would accept his delay if it was due to Nines, but he’d rather face the music as soon as possible.

Nines sighed, lowering the bottle of water and the rag. “Do you want me to come with you? I can give an eye-witness account.”

“No. I will be fine,” Connor said, injecting as much false certainty into his voice as possible. He pushed himself to his feet and left the tent, walking over to where Amanda was standing.

Amanda didn’t say anything immediately, although her head moved very slightly towards him to acknowledge his presence. Connor didn’t say anything either. He just put his hands behind his back and waited.

“How were they alerted, Connor?” she finally asked.

“I’m unsure. Their leader examined my wrists and noticed prior rope scars, but didn’t show suspicion regarding them. Something alerted him after I was hit in the face. I can only assume something in my act was off.”

Amanda finally turned her gaze on him. Connor remained still and kept eye contact. She stared him down in that way that made him feel like she was in his head, sifting through his thoughts for anything that suggested weakness. Amanda didn’t tolerate weakness or inefficiency.

“You didn’t capture anyone when they scattered. Why did you fail there?”

Connor didn’t point out that neither had anyone else. It would sound like he was making excuses.

“I missed my shot when firing on their leader,” Connor said. It technically wasn’t a lie.

Amanda watched him for a moment longer. Then turned back to the fire.

“I expect you to do better next time,” she said coldly.

This was the best result that Connor could have expected. At least there would be a next time. He hadn’t expected Amanda to get rid of him for this, but there was always that slight hint of uncertainty. 

Connor inclined his head slightly, then returned to Nines’ tent to continue getting patched up. The dried blood staining much of his face was starting to itch.

He’d do better next time. But he needed to know what he’d done wrong first. And there was only one person who could tell him that.

 

* * *

When dawn came, Connor packed his usual gear for hunting. 

They always needed food, whether it be scavenged pre-packaged food from the old world or, more realistically, whatever he could find growing in the wasteland, whatever animals he could hunt down. Bighorners and brahmin were nice, not to mention they came with good hides and brahmin could be used for milk or as pack animals, but they could eat near anything in the wasteland if they had to. People were obviously the most widely available meat, but they tried not to do that. Only in truly desperate times. Ethical concerns aside, human meat tended to result in the shakes. Connor didn’t know how that tribe that lived some ways further north managed it.

He’d work on that, but it wasn’t his only goal for the day.

Backpack on and a hunting rifle ready, darts left at home for the day but with a poisoned knife still concealed in his ragged clothes (he had a non-poisoned one reserved for skinning carcasses), Connor started to head out, stepping around the faint embers remaining of the fire. Most of the others were sprawled out on mattresses or blankets, still asleep. The only ones inside the few tents they had were either the injured or Amanda, who had the privilege of a tent that belonged only to her. Connor saw Sixty curled up on the ground, in a good spot by the fire that he’d likely kicked someone else out of. He didn’t see Nines. He might have already left, or he might be keeping watch from somewhere hidden.

With that, Connor left and started to wind his way through the ruins, heading for where the Khans had made camp. If they were smart--and now he knew that Hank at least certainly was--they would have packed up and moved elsewhere.

But he’d find them.

He wouldn’t fail this mission.

 

* * *

 

 

**July 9th, 2267**

 

Sometimes buildings had been long since picked clean once the Khans got to them, but sometimes… sometimes there was still scraps of good shit around. And this ruined cafe was one of those times. It had clearly been picked over before, but not so thoroughly that there was nothing good.

“Dibs!”

Hank rolled his eyes as Gavin reached past him and snatched up the carton of cigarettes that was still behind the counter. “You’re sharing that with the others.”

“Ugh, well, I’m keeping two packs. They can have one each, but I called dibs.”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Hank continued rummaging through the shelves, putting anything that’d be appreciated into his bag. Pre-packaged food was always a nice treat, although Hank had no idea how the fuck it had stayed edible for two hundred years. Anything sweet was particularly good, since there weren’t many other sources of sugar. Nuka-Cola went particularly fast, as did snack cakes. Not the most practical, survival-wise, but damn if it didn’t taste good.

“That all the food?” Hank asked.

“There’s like… a storeroom back here, but I can’t get it open,” Gavin grumbled. He gave the door a kick before huffing, hand going for the cigarette carton and pulling one of the packs from it. “Well, gonna check if these are good or not. For safety, y’know?”

“Smoke that shit away from me.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Gavin moved to step outside, wandering out of sight. Hank started to examine the lock on the storeroom door. Maybe he could get it open, but he was out of bobby pins. Lots of places had a few lying around, though. Maybe if he was lucky…

He started looking the cafe over once more, but got almost immediately distracted by the fact that there were still a couple of intact magazines on the nearby rack. That was a rarity. Granted, Hank couldn’t read but magazines usually had enough nice pictures to make up for it.

As Hank flicked through one of them--a comic book featuring a knight fighting a dragon on the cover, something that he figured some of the kids back at the camp could appreciate even if they couldn’t read it either--he yawned and rubbed one of his eyes with the palm of his hand.

The last three days had not involved much sleeping.

The first few hours after the ambush had involved packing up the scouting camp and meeting up with the main group of Khans, and telling their leader what had gone down. After that, Papa Khan had tasked him with finding somewhere they could set up good defences around. That had taken the better part of the next two days.

Now he was back on scouting duty. Which right now also involved a fair amount of scavenging. Or prospecting, as the locals had taken to calling it. Hank had talked with a few, not bothering with threats since they'd had nothing that he wanted. Those who had somehow managed to keep homes in this clusterfuck of a city weren't forthcoming about much, but they did have knowledge of some of the surrounding tribes and gangs.

They all knew the people that Hank described, as it turned out. Mostly they recognised the woman in the fluttering white poncho and the three near-identical brothers. Recognised the usage of drugged darts. Folk called them the ‘Slither Kin.’ Dumb name. Regardless of the name, they were recognised as horrific even by the standards of Vegas. They considered everyone little more than prey, rarely bothering to negotiate for anything. Whoever they took from their traps either reappeared in chains and got passed off to whoever would pay the price or they turned up a mutilated corpse, if they ever reappeared at all.

In short? Assholes. Assholes who showed no mercy.

So why had the kid shown mercy?

As Hank mulled this question while flicking past a comic page about some fancy blonde lady with a nice hat waving a handkerchief at the knight, his neck prickled uncomfortably.

Slowly, Hank turned his head a little, closing the comic book. After a moment, feeling that acute sensation that he was being watched, he put it down and drew the hunting revolver from his belt. Was it just because he’d been thinking about it? Was it paranoia speaking, or…

The faintest squeak of a foot on old wooden floors.

No. He definitely wasn’t alone. And it wasn’t from the same direction that Gavin had left through. 

Hank flicked the safety off and started to pace as softly as he could, towards where that squeak had come from. His own feet made creaks against the wooden floors despite his best effort. But he made his way past the storeroom towards the back of the old cafe. There was a door, one that led into a breakroom for staff.

Hank paused for a moment, listening. Another slight floor squeak. Then he kicked open the door and came face to face with a rifle barrel.

A different one from the other day. No darts, just lead. But the same opponent. Same rags. Same dark hair, pale and dirt-caked skin and misleadingly sweet eyes. 

Strangely, there was almost a smile on the kid’s face. Just a slight quirk from the corner of his mouth.

“You’re very good, Hank,” he said genuinely. “Not many people hear me coming. Even on floorboards like this.”

Hank stepped forward, keeping his own gun raised. “How d’you know my name?”

“I didn’t pick your camp on a quick whim. I scouted. It’s not hard to find out someone’s name. Speaking of which.” He slightly indicated to himself, jerking the gun very slightly back in order to do so. “Connor. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, nice ain’t the word I would use. The fuck do you want? You pulling another ambush?”

Hank wondered what the fuck Gavin was doing. Still having a smoke? Getting attacked by another from this fucked up crew? If Hank had to carry him out of a firefight again, he was going to be so damn pissed. (Hank tried not to think of darker alternatives. Better to think that he was unconscious at worst.)

“I came alone. This is personal business, not--”

“Not any of your snake bullshit?”

“No traps. No poisons. I just wanted to talk.”

“Talking doesn’t involve guns,” Hank snapped.

“You raised yours, too. This is for my own safety.” Connor lowered the rifle very slightly, but still kept it pointed at Hank. “I’ve proven that I have no investment in harming you. I could have shot you. Could have tied you up and dragged you and… what was his name? Gavin? The obnoxious one.”

“...Yeah, that’s Gavin.”

“I could have dragged you back to Amanda. We could have sold you both for enough caps to barter for anything we couldn’t take for months.” Connor tilted his head, examining Hank from head to toe. “If we found the right buyers. Maybe a little chewy for the cannibals. But I could think of a few uses.”

“What.”

Connor paused for a moment, still eying Hank’s mid-section with a thoughtful twist to his mouth, before fixing his gaze back on Hank’s face. “Pack brahmin. Laborer. Et cetera,” he clarified quickly.

“...Right.”

“But I didn’t do that.”

“Well, congratulations for not selling me into slavery. The fuck do you want, a medal?”

“No. But if either of us has ill intentions to disprove, it’s you. Or at least your tribe.” Connor let go of his rifle with one hand to touch his badly bruised nose. The motion also made the rope burns on his wrist more obvious. “So I propose a truce. Just for the day. But I need you to lower your gun first.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I will shoot and rely on my quick reflexes to get me out of this. It’s not optimal. I would much rather that we talk.”

There was a good chance Connor would just shoot him the moment he lowered his gun. But he had a point. And perhaps he didn’t know that Gavin was nearby. Hank could keep him talking until Gavin got back and he had strength in numbers.

Besides, if it was an ambush he was probably already fucked. And Hank couldn't pretend he wasn't a little curious. So screw it.

“Fine, whatever.” Hank lowered the gun. Once it was pointing at the ground, Connor also lowered his rifle. They waited for a moment, perhaps seeing if the other would then quickly raise their gun to shoot, before slinging their respective weapons back into their holsters.

Connor then gestured a hand at one of the tables of the cafe, not far from the magazine rack. They both moved over to it and sat down, Connor clasping his hands in his lap while Hank slung an arm over the back of his chair and relaxed as much as he could given the circumstances.

“How’d I give myself away?” Connor asked.

“That’s what this is about, huh? You want me to tell you so that you can ambush me properly in the future?”

“No, it wouldn’t work on you a second time,” Connor mused. “It didn’t even work the first time. If we try to take your tribe, we’ll have to do it through other means.”

“That a threat?”

“It’s realistic. The truce is only temporary, after all.” Connor shifted forward and leaned in a little, watching Hank closely. “No-one’s ever figured me out that fast. You’re clearly perceptive. It’s admirable.”

“Ugh, don’t try to get into this with flattery,” Hank groaned. “Why the fuck would I help you? Even if it’s not gonna hurt my crew, you really think I want to make you better? What do I get out of that? Fuck all is what.”

Connor leaned back, nearly mirroring Hank’s body language but instead of slinging his arm over the back of the chair he rested his face on his hand, studying Hank carefully.

“True,” he conceded. “What would you like out of it?”

Hank considered it, mouth twisting slightly. Then he gestured at the combat knife on Connor’s belt.

“You good with poisons? That was some potent fuckin’ tremble you got me with. I had the shakes for hours. Give me your recipe and I’ll tell you how I figured you out.”

Connor mulled it over, glancing down at his knife as well. “...That seems fair.” He started to look around, before reaching out for a scrap of paper that had fallen out of one of the magazines. Hank raised a hand before he could go further.

“You’re gonna have to either draw pictures or just tell me. Can’t read.”

“Oh. Well, I hope you can remember the specific measurements, then.” Connor pulled his hand back from the scrap of paper. “Radscorpion poison. Cazador poison. White horsenettle. I’ll tell you the measurements if you give me what I want.”

“The fuck is a cazador?”

Connor let out a slight huff of breath that might have been a laugh. “You’re new to the Mojave, aren’t you? Well, if anything’s going to chase you back west, it would likely be cazadors.”

“What the fuck is a cazador, Connor?!”

“I’ll draw a diagram while you give me the answer to my question.”

“Alright, alright!” Hank huffed, shrugging. He watched Connor pick up the piece of paper again and start scrawling for a moment. Completely at ease despite the fact that they’d been pointing guns at each other only minutes ago. “The truth? You just didn’t look scared.”

The pencil paused. Connor tilted his head, looking up to squint slightly at Hank. “...Really?”

“I mean, it was a good effort. You were doing the obvious shit. Avoiding eye contact. Recoiling. All that coward stuff. But there were no tremors. No fidgeting except to get those ropes off your hands. No signs of dry mouth. People lick their lips and stuff when they’re nervous. And your eyes were just too calm. They weren’t, like… darting around and looking for an exit.”

Connor just continued to watch Hank, looking almost puzzled. Hank shrugged again.

“You just kind of looked bored, that’s all.”

Connor didn’t say anything for a moment, eyes drifting to the side as he considered it. He mulled it over before nodding slightly, his mouth pulling up a little more.

“Interesting. That makes sense as an eventual flaw,” he said, returning to drawing his diagram. “You need two parts radscorpion venom for every one part cazador, or it’s too lethal to work as tremble. Just a pinch of the horsenettle to make it itchy.” After a few more pencil strokes, he put the piece of paper on the coffee table and pushed it towards Hank. “That’s a cazador.”

Hank picked up the piece of paper, examining the picture of a terrifying wasp with a particularly obvious stinger. Next to it was a small stick figure in a leather vest possessing a ponytail and angry eyebrows. “...Is that me?”

“Yes. That’s for height reference.”

“Oh. ...Well, shit.”

“They move very erratically. You should use something that shoots many bullets very quickly. I find that the wings are good to remove as quick as possible, but you won’t have time to actually aim.”

Hank snorted. “Lots of bullets and no aiming. Gavin’s going to have a field trip.”

...Speaking of which. Hank realised just how long Gavin had been gone.

Immediately, he drew his gun and pointed it square at Connor. A cold feeling of dread seeping quickly into his stomach. Connor blinked, raising his hands slightly.

“I thought we had a truce.”

“And I thought you came alone,” Hank snarled.

Connor looked at Hank for a moment, eyes narrowing in confusion, before he sighed and shut them for a moment.

“Nines,” he muttered under his breath before opening his eyes. “He must have followed me. I’ll have a talk with him.” He started to get to his feet.

“Sit the fuck down!”

Connor paused, halfway to his feet. Then he sat back down. But his mannerisms slightly shifted. Still at ease, but less friendly. The easy mannerisms of someone who isn’t particularly worried about a situation because they know they’re good enough to get out of it. Hank knows those twitches well. Normally he’s the one with that feeling.

“If you insist,” Connor said, a slight frost to his tone. “It isn’t my concern what happens to him. But I’d recommend you let me help you. Nines is unforgiving. He may decide that recompense for this--” Connor tapped his bruised nose. “--means that he has to take Gavin’s with him.”

“You got that much confidence? How d’you know Nines isn’t the one bleeding out?”

“He won’t be. He’s Nines.” 

This didn’t have the tone of bragging. Connor said it in the same tone that someone else would use to note the weather. It was that tone that made Hank lower his gun.

“If you pull anything, I’ll gun you and Nines down.”

“You won’t, but I like the confidence,” Connor said brightly, the frosty tone switched off as quickly as it had appeared. He got up and walked towards the door, heading in the direction that Gavin had previously left in. Occasionally tilting his head slightly before nodding to himself and continuing in the relevant direction.

Hank didn’t know what the fuck Connor was following, but however he was doing it, he ended up at the right place. They found Nines and Gavin a couple of buildings away, just beyond the doorway of a place that had once sold booze.

It quickly became evident why no shouts had been heard. Nines had Gavin pinned, and was pressing his forearm down hard over Gavin’s throat, trapping any airflow. He was, true to Connor’s casual prediction, holding a knife in the other and attempting to dig it into Gavin’s face. The point was inches from the existing scar on Gavin’s nose, which Nines seemed to have taken as a note on where to start. The only reason he hadn’t managed it yet was Gavin had gotten hold of the offending wrist, and was just barely keeping the knife at bay. The other arm was pinned, too. In this case by Nines’ knee. His sub-machine gun just barely inches away, fingertips occasionally brushing it but unable to get a proper grasp.

Hank raised his gun, but held off firing. Connor didn’t immediately say anything. He just cleared his throat. Nines looked up, giving Hank and his raised revolver only a cursory glance before looking at Connor.

“Nines. You’re embarrassing me in front of my new enemy,” Connor told him. “Leave Gavin alone, he’s not worth the trouble.”

“Fuck you,” Gavin spluttered, wheezing through the pressure on his throat. “I’m worth so much trouble!”

“Gavin, shut up,” Hank said through gritted teeth. 

He saw Gavin’s pinned arm shift as much as it could as Gavin attempted to flip him off. The knot in his stomach loosened. Gavin was fine if he could manage that.

Nines said nothing. He stared back with those ice-cold eyes, then looked back down at Gavin. His gaze was coldly murderous. The temptation to carry on was clear, regardless of the gun pointed at him.

But instead, Nines slowly let the knife up. Once it wasn’t pointing at Gavin’s face anymore, he tugged it free.

Then he quickly turned it around and swung it back down, cracking the handle across Gavin’s nose. Getting a yelp and a spray of blood in response.

Hank squeezed the trigger, but the split second beforehand Connor swung his own arm back, shoving Hank’s own aside and causing his shot to go wide. Nines still hadn’t moved nor had he acknowledged the gunshot, although his hands tightened a little as Gavin thrashed under his grip, choking out attempts at swears. Connor, arm still thrown out, looked towards Hank.

“I’ll ignore that you did that, for the sake of our agreement,” he said quietly. Though there was a flicker of that same cold, murderous stare that Nines had been giving Gavin. Before Hank could respond, Nines climbed off Gavin, ducking back in time to dodge the fist that was immediately thrown at him once Gavin’s arms were free. He stood, kicking the sub-machine gun a bit further out of reach on his way.

“We’re even now,” Nines said calmly. “If you touch my brother again, I will take whatever you used to do so.”

“Fuck you,” Gavin spat, sitting up and holding his nose. Blood streamed through his fingers, but better a broken nose than a missing one. Hank shifted forward, stepping in front of Gavin while keeping his gun raised.

“Clear off now or you won’t get the chance,” Hank growled.

Connor sighed wearily and finally pulled out his own rifle, raising it and pointing it at Hank as he moved over to stand next to Nines.

“Are you done?” he asked Nines, the faintest irritation in his voice.

“For now.”

Connor nodded before jerking his head slightly to the entrance of the shop. Together, feet perfectly in sync, the two brothers started to move away. Neither Hank or Connor moved their guns away from each other as it occured. Nothing else was said until Connor was through the door with Nines slightly behind him.

Then, like a switch being flipped, Connor went right back to that half-smile.

“It was nice talking with you,” he said.

Then he lowered his rifle, and both he and Nines bolted out of sight.

Hank waited until they were gone, then lowered his gun before picking up Gavin’s sub-machine gun from the ground and shoving it back into his hands. Once he’d done that, he dragged Gavin to his feet.

“How the fuck did he get the drop on you?”

“I had my hands full,” Gavin grumbled, nodding at the slightly burnt cigarette that was lying on the ground. “Anyway, what the hell were you doing? Jerking off to magazines?” He winced before pinching his now-bloody nose and trying to make it stop.

“No, I was--” 

Just chatting with the enemy? How the fuck did Hank make that not sound ridiculous? Instead, Hank just lightly smacked Gavin over the head. 

“Come on, let’s just get that fucking storeroom open. If we go back with you looking like that and don’t have a lot of food, it’s gonna make us look like idiots.”

“Yeah, that ain’t changing the subject at all.”

“Screw you. Anyway, I was… fuck, gathering intel or something. Now I know what cazadors are, so fuck you.”

“Yeah, they’re like… those guys from the pre-war that wave the red flags at animals. I could have told you that, dipshit.”

 

* * *

 

 

**January 16th, 2280**

 

“Hank.” 

Connor knocked at the door for the fifth time in the last minute. Still no response.

“Haaaank. You can't lock yourself in my room forever.”

Still nothing. Connor stared at the door patiently for a minute longer, holding a plate of lakelurk eggs in his hands. Then he turned around and walked back towards the main room, putting the eggs down before rummaging through a few drawers. After some searching, he retrieved a screwdriver and, picking the eggs back up, returned to his bedroom door and set about unscrewing the hinges.

After a minute’s work and a light push, the door crashed to the floor. Hank, in response, didn’t move from his position face-down on the bed. He did, however, speak.

“Fuck off,” he said, voice muffled by the pillows.

“This is my room, Hank. You can’t evict me.”

“Jesus Christ, then I’ll leave. Just--” Hank rolled over onto his back and started to sit up, but Connor blocked his path out of the room by stepping in front of him and holding out the plate of eggs.

“You should eat. It will help the hangover.”

“Get your shitty eggs away from me,” Hank snapped, trying to wave them away. “You can’t even cook well! Everything you cook tastes like literal nothingness. Seriously, how do you even do that? It was always devoid of flavor, and I bet you’re too fancy to cook for yourself now so--”

“Where else would I get food? The only restaurant on the Strip is the Ultra-Luxe and they don’t like me visiting more than necessary. It makes them think I’m scheming.”

“Now why would they ever think that?” Hank muttered into his hands.

Connor pulled the eggs back slightly, but he didn’t move. He just stood there awkwardly, fingers slightly drumming on the plate.

After a while, Hank finally peered somewhat through his fingers.

“The fuck am I doing here? How did I get here? How the hell did you even know I was in Freeside?”

“Coincidence. You were at Jericho. You tried to punch me and passed out. I assume you don’t remember?”

“...That does sound like me. But no. Don’t remember shit.” Hank lowered his hands, eyes squinting a little as he stared at Connor’s clothing. “Feels like I should remember that. What the fuck are you wearing?”

“A suit?”

“It’s…” Hank paused, seemingly having trouble connecting a couple of thoughts. He gazed for a moment, eyes flicking down then back up, then he looked away. “It’s fucking weird,” he finally muttered under his breath.

“Oh. I suppose it isn’t the best clothing to cook in.” Connor examined his rolled-up sleeves before starting to tug them back to their proper length. Just long enough to cover up the rope scars, just as he preferred it. He didn’t mind Hank seeing them--wouldn’t make much sense to hide them--but he didn’t like the public noticing any of his scars. It also annoyed Sixty, since it was a major tip-off as to which twin it was. Annoying Sixty tended to result in more problems than it solved.

“Fuck, that so isn’t the issue…” Hank rubbed his face with both hands again before looking down at the bed he was sitting on. He stared at it for a moment longer, then looked from Connor, then back to the bed. “...God, we didn’t fuck, did we? Because this bed looks like it came out of a pre-war smut novel.”

“Do you think that little of me?”

“Your whole goddamn tribe ran by drugging people for fucked up purposes!”

“...We did do that. But no. I did not take advantage of your drunken state. The bed only looks like that because I couldn’t combat Gomorrah’s general aesthetic. It is very… garish, I’ll admit.” Connor’s mind caught up on the implications of the sentence. “Did you learn how to read?”

Hank didn’t respond, having gone back to trying to massage his head.

“You’d recover quicker if you ate the eggs.”

“Passive-aggressive shit,” Hank grumbled. “The fuck is with you and these eggs? They poisonous?”

“Yes,” Connor said flatly. “I spiked them with poison. I waited for you to wake up just so I could kill you in my own room. All for the purpose of practicing how to dispose of bodies without leaving evidence, knowing that the pressure would allow me to perform better. You caught me.”

“I really wouldn’t put that past you.” Hank focused on the eggs for a moment, a frown curling around his mouth, before he huffed and held out his hands. “If it’ll get you off my dick about it, then fine. Gimme.”

Connor promptly handed them over before moving away to drag over a chair that sat by a little desk off to the side. He pulled it over and sat down as Hank prodded at the eggs before shoving a chunk of it into his mouth. He then waited, eyes flickering to the side as he mulled the taste.

“...Really, how the hell do you make eggs with no flavor? Poison might have added to it, honestly.” Hank still grumbled, but some of the irritation faded from his voice as he ate a couple more mouthfuls. He sounded… tired. But not aggressive. He ate another mouthful, then lowered the plate. He looked down, then back up at Connor. “Seriously. Why am I here?”

Connor instinctively reached for his coin again, only to realise it was in his jacket pocket, and his jacket was in the other room. Instead, he just clasped his hands in his lap to stop them from fidgeting.

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

“About?”

“Not about anything. I just wanted conversation. Any conversation with you.” Connor smiled slightly at Hank. “It’s been a long time. I hadn’t heard your name since Bitter Springs--”

He noticed Hank immediately tense up, his fork freezing. Face clouding over.

“I thought you might have died. Especially since Gavin ignored any questions I had about you.”

Hank didn’t move for a few more moments. Then he started prodding the eggs again halfheartedly, averting his gaze.

“You’ve seen him, huh? I guess you would have. Heard enough about your fucking casino to know that this place is a massive overdose waiting to happen. ‘Course he’s dealing here.”

“Strictly speaking, he only makes deliveries to Nines. It isn’t ‘dealing,’ exactly.”

“Tato, tah-to,” Hank muttered, his voice as venomous as he’d accused the eggs of being. Not eating another bite, just pushing the food around on his plate. Connor shifted his chair forward, eying him with a slight, concerned frown.

Hank not wearing the Khan vest was something that Connor had found odd, but which he had plausible explanations for. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to attract NCR attention. But given that Gavin delivered a massive portion of the Khan’s drug supplies to the casino, there was no possible way for Hank to have not known he came here.

Clearly, Hank had not been with the Khans for some time.

That led Connor to another question, but looking at Hank… looking at how age and sorrow lined his face, at the clouded expression over at the mention of Bitter Springs, and knowing what little solid fact he had on what had occurred there--facts that were few and far in between, because no-one who’d been there liked to talk about it--he thought he might know the answer.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Hank?”

“No. No, you fucking can’t,” Hank said. Quietly. Without any actual heat, but those words sounded exhausted. Like he really wanted to be angry when he said them, and just couldn’t.

It honestly made Connor feel sadder than actual anger would have.

So he nodded slightly. He wouldn’t ask about Cole. Not today, at least.

Connor extended his hands slightly, putting them on the bed but keeping some distance from Hank. Trying not to get too close into his personal space, but at the same time moving forward enough that Hank could cross the rest of that distance. If he wanted to. Hank made no move to do so.

“Then we can keep it casual. Nothing personal.”

This seemed to only make Hank’s frown deepen. Connor tilted his head, then looked down.

“I don’t want anything from you except company,” Connor said quietly. “But I will leave you to think on it. I have to take care of some work for Amanda, so here are the options I’m leaving you with. Your guns are with the receptionist at the front desk--”

Hank straightened up slightly, reaching for where his empty holster was, then he gave Connor an irritated and exasperated glare.

“Casino policy. Nothing I can do about it,” Connor said apologetically. “She’ll give them back on your way out. The Omertas outside my door know that you’re here, and will direct you out if you want them to. You’re free to leave whenever you like. I won’t take it personally.”

Hank didn’t reply, now just halfheartedly prodding at the eggs and staring at them like they’d personally kicked a dog.

“If you want, though… you can stay here for a little while. Either in this room or Gomorrah at large. As much as I would hate to encourage this--” Connor waved his hand vaguely at Hank. “--there is a bar. Wherever you choose to go, I’ll find you once I’m done. I’ll be polite and wait outside if you use any of the more risque services.”

He still got no reply, so Connor took that as a response in of itself and nodded slightly before getting up. He moved to leave, stepping over the fallen door, but his hand paused on the doorframe. He paused, then turned towards Hank.

“I know we didn’t part on the best terms. I think it would be nice if we parted on better ones this time,” he said softly.

Hank didn’t look up, but his fork slowed slightly from where it had been absently mashing the flavorless eggs into an even pulpier mess. His eyes looked to the side for a few moments before flickering up to look Connor in the eyes.

That gaze held for a second. As it did, Connor recalled the glare that Hank had sent him right before they’d parted ways. This wasn’t that glare. This one was tired, but it reminded Connor more of old times spent sitting on the floor of trashed ruins. Quite vividly, Connor recalled blond but grey-streaked hair and a less lined, sad face, with those eyes still the same in the middle of it all.

Then Hank looked down again, scraping at the eggs once more. 

Connor nodded, turned and left Hank to his weirdly flavorless eggs and whatever painful memories that the last few years had left him with.


	3. Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present day, Hank decides whether to give Connor and New Vegas a chance. 
> 
> In the past, Connor and Nines set up an ambush and the Khans celebrate having a home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, it sure is hard to write a serious scene when one of the characters is literally called Papa Khan.

**January 17th, 2280**

 

Hank didn’t leave Connor’s suite for a long time. He spent several hours faceplanting back into that bed, trying to ignore the thumping in his head and his situation at large. It was difficult to do so while lying on bizarrely silky sheets, but he tried.

It was past midnight--probably, Hank had always had a good sense for this shit--when he finally climbed off the bed again. Even then, he didn’t leave the suite. Only the bedroom, instead wandering back to that window. It looked no different than before, despite the fact that it was the dead of night. If anything, it looked busier. Hank could now look at the neon without his head cracking in two, but he still had to squint slightly against the brightness of this alien world.

Hank watched for a while, debating whether to run before Connor came back. Who knew how long ‘other business’ would take, and Connor was just…

Hank struggled to even find the words for what Connor was. He was a lot. Just… a lot to deal with. And that hadn’t always been in a bad way, which made it even worse to contemplate. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to open that barrel of monkeys again.

Considering it just for a moment made him finally turn and head for the door.

Shit was simpler in Freeside and in the wastes. He could go back, pick up anything he’d left with Simon--or had he left his things with Josh? He couldn’t remember right now, but he did that if he’d picked up any interesting books in the wastes. Either way, he could pick up his shit and return to his usual life of doing odd jobs and hoping one day one of them would get him killed. The usual. The usual was easy.

Hank pushed open the door that led out of the suite, still smelling like alcohol and vaguely fishy eggs--how the hell did those eggs retain the fishy smell but no taste at all? He immediately encountered two scowling men in off-white, striped suits, dark fedoras and armed with sub-machine guns. It made Hank immediately aware of how light his holster was.

“The fuck are you staring at?” Hank asked them.

“At you, drunkie. The fuck does it look like?” one of them snapped.

The other one instead just tilted his head and squinted at Hank with a critical eye, eyes going from his greying hair to his beer gut, before saying to the other under his breath, “I thought the boss would have better taste than this.”

“Hey,” Hank grumbled. “I’m right here.”

“Yeah, we know.” The second guard jerked his head down the hall. “Elevator’s that way. It’ll lead you to the main floor. Behave yourself, Khan, or we’ll blow your fucking head off.”

Hank didn’t bother correcting them on the ‘Khan’ bit. He just flipped them off and headed down the hall towards the elevator. 

This floor was empty of all but guards. He could see a couple of doors, identical to the ones he’d just passed through. Each had one or two guards stationed outside, while others patrolled the halls. All of them gave him suspicious looks. Clearly this was where the big bosses lived. 

He thought he’d feel more at ease not being surrounded by armed guards, but even riding down the elevator was a bit of a trip. He wasn’t used to elevators, he’d almost never seen a working one. Kept expecting the damn thing to jolt or drop. Spent the whole trip down with his arms braced on the walls, just in case.

When the elevator stopped, he left a little quicker than necessary. Felt claustrophobic in there. But the main area of the casino wasn’t much better. Sure, it was roomy. But there was a lot of… everything.

Casino games being run by more men in suits, with gamblers crowded around in fancy outfits betting everything they had. Neon signs leading people to the ‘Brimstone’ club or advertising the services, fire used for decoration, golden cages with dancers inside dangling from the ceiling. Just lights and decoration and people seething about, just like the Strip outside except a lot closer. Hank slowly backed up so he was against the wall, watching people go by.

Where the fuck even was the exit? There were no signs pointing towards it. Probably because they expected people to remember coming in through the entrance, instead of being dragged here while unconscious.

Hank took a guess at a direction, and ended up in a bar instead. Granted, it was a bar with a dancer gyrating on stage, but it was a bar. That was at least something of a relief. Hank practically ran to sit his ass down there, trying to shut out the crowds and the lights.

“Scotch,” he rasped to the bartender. “Scotch and directions to the exit.”

He started to rummage through his pockets for caps to pay the bartender, but the bartender raised a hand.

“You’re Hank, right? Connor said to keep an eye out for you.” The bartender slid over a scotch. “He said he’d cover the cost of the drinks, as long as I gave you water in between and tried to keep you out of black-out drunk.”

Dammit. Connor was both bribing him to stay and nagging him into being healthier, and he wasn’t even present. That fucking jackass.

“Just… fuck, just give me the directions, would you?”

The bartender shrugged and pointed him back towards the main floor, telling him where to find the reception. Hank picked up the scotch and practically bolted. The reception was a little less crowded, though someone was in the midst of turning in their guns to the scowling guard at the front. That expression contrasted with the smile of the receptionist, a pretty brown-haired girl in a blue dress.

“Hank, isn’t it?” she asked as he approached.

“How many people did Connor mention me to?” he sighed.

“I was here when he brought you in. Didn’t think you’d be leaving so soon, doesn’t feel like you’ve had the time for any fun. But I can understand wanting to get the walk of shame over as quickly as possible.”

“That’s not what--” Hank shook his head, rubbing his forehead as the hangover started to reoccur. “Whatever, do you have my gun?”

The receptionist promptly handed it back. Hank checked it quickly to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with, but it seemed in working order.

“We hope to see you at Gomorrah again soon,” she said, offering him a smile and a wink.

“Uh, yeah… thanks?”

Hank quickly left, pushing open the door only to be nearly bulldozed back inside by a few more people heading into Gomorrah. NCR soldiers this time, arms slung around each other as they celebrated their time off. Hank’s jaw tightened as he tried not to lash out at them, keeping his eyes away and focused forward. This wasn’t the sort of place he could pick fights with them.

He ventured a few steps out, trying to duck the tourists moving about. He’d never seen a street so crowded in his life. Lots of people lived in Freeside, but they were more spread out. And tourists didn’t come to stay in Freeside, only to pass through while heading for the Strip. This was the place that people came to the Mojave for nowadays.

Hank took a few more steps, passing by a man with a suit that was counterbalanced by a scruffy, red beard and dark sunglasses despite the night, who was currently selling discreet weapons to a tourist, the sorts of knives and guns that could perhaps be smuggled through a weapons check. He could see the gate from here, with the Securitrons guarding it, cartoonish grumpy faces displayed on the televisions set in the centre of their bulky chests.

That was the exit. That would lead him back to Freeside.

He wouldn’t be able to get back, he’d need to pass the credit check or have a passport. He wasn’t even sure how Connor had gotten him through to begin with.

Hank shut his eyes for a moment. Blocked out the lights and the crowds. Took a few deep breaths, tried to reassure himself that he still could breathe in this crowd. Blocked out Vegas, and instead considered Connor’s offer.

Freeside would be the usual. It would be easier and it would be more his speed. He’d visited places like Vegas before, but generally not as intense in so small an area. Not so crowded and not so walled-in.

But there was a part of him that was curious about what had happened to this place in the last six years. And a part of him too wary to walk the area alone.

Not to mention a part of him that remembered the better times. A sense of nostalgia for a scraggly, sneaky motherfucker who’d once worn rags instead of a suit. A face that he’d long struggled on whether to punch or kiss. Something that had always varied on the day. It’d been ‘punch’ the last time they’d met. Something that had soured any good memories.

Hank didn’t have a lot of good memories that weren’t tainted nowadays. Good memories of the Khans had been washed out by memories of fire and gunshots and the chaos of Bitter Springs, and disappointment for what the Khans had become after that. And Cole… fuck, any good memory of Cole hurt to think about. 

He thought about Connor’s words, and could see the appeal in parting on better terms for once. Maybe un-tainting a few good memories.

He turned right back around and headed back inside Gomorrah.

“...I didn’t mean that soon,” the receptionist said after a moment, blinking at him as Hank put his gun back on the counter.

“Yeah… well, neither did I.”

Besides, he couldn’t pass up free booze.

 

* * *

 

 

**July 15th, 2267**

 

The sun was bright, and Connor could feel it burning the back of his neck. 

He and Nines had picked their position on top of the ruined, cracked portion of bridge--it led nowhere, crumbled at both ends--so that the sun was behind them, meaning anyone who was walking towards them on the highway below wouldn’t be looking right at them. Not unless they wanted an eyeful of direct sunlight. It would also make their silhouettes difficult to distinguish from the rest of the bridge. It was uncomfortable, but it suited their purpose.

Nines, of course, looked as fresh as a spring daisy. Not that Connor had ever seen an actual daisy. Only a picture inside a home renovation magazine talking about gardens. But that was Nines. He always looked so oddly unaffected by the rough lifestyle they led. He was probably the only member of the Slither Kin who wasn’t scarred in some way. He was so perfectly preserved that he could have been a vault dweller.

The others weren’t far away, hiding out in one of the nearby buildings. But they had nothing to do until Connor and Nines found someone worth ambushing. That was something that could take hours. Days, even, if the roads weren’t busy. No-one really liked to stop close to Vegas.

They were a bit further north from their usual spot, close to one of the major roads that caravans tended to journey along. Nines had his rifle out, and was staring through the scope in lieu of the binoculars that Connor had. Connor waited beside him, arms crossed and chin resting on them as he tried to ignore how he felt like he was slowly cooking in the heat.

Internally, he was rehearsing his actions for the next ambush. Recalling the advice that Hank had given him. Thinking of little details to sprinkle on his performance so that, this time, they wouldn’t catch on before the others were ready.

He was still blindsided on how easily Hank had read him.

“Do I look bored during ambushes to you?” Connor asked suddenly, looking sideways at Nines. 

First words he’d said in the last hour. In all honesty, he hadn’t said a lot to Nines lately. He was still miffed about Nines following him. Yes, he would acknowledge that Nines’ concerns were somewhat valid. Running away to interact with the enemy wasn’t a situation that often boded well. But he could have just asked Connor about what he was doing. Connor would have told him.

Nines paused, lowering his rifle slightly and looking at Connor. He considered the question before saying, “I wouldn’t say bored. Distracted would be more apt.” He lifted the rifle again, focusing back on the road. “Sometimes you look like you’re thinking about dogs.”

“I usually am,” Connor admitted. “Why didn’t you tell me that my act was unconvincing?”

“I assumed it was because I have knowledge of your mannerisms. No-one else knows you that well, just as no-one else can tell the minute difference between you and Sixty at a glance. To others, you shouldn’t be too obvious.”

Connor frowned, resting his chin back on his folded arms. “Apparently I’m not doing well enough.”

Nines grunted absently, still more focused on the road. After watching for a little while longer, he lowered his rifle in order to take a sip of dirt-clouded water from a bottle that rested next to him. After swishing the water around in his mouth to get the dry taste out of his mouth--even if it meant his teeth were going to feel gritty for a while--he held the bottle out to Connor.

“Why didn’t you ask me this earlier instead of running off to talk to the enemy?”

Connor took the water bottle, taking a swig as well. It left a somewhat bitter taste on his tongue, but he was used to that.

“Where better to get the information from?”

“Anywhere.” Nines side-eyed Connor and said lightly, “This wouldn’t have to do with the Khans dressing like the men in that magazine, would it? The one Sixty has and thinks we don’t know about?”

“No. No, it does not,” Connor huffed. “Teenage harmonies have nothing to do with this.”

“Hormones,” Nines corrected him.

“Either one. Both are irrelevant,” Connor sighed.

Truth be told, Nines was not entirely inaccurate. He had noticed the similarities between Hank and at least one man from that magazine. Something that the old world had called a biker. Not many of those nowadays, although Connor had heard rumor of a gang in Utah that still had functioning motorcycles. But working vehicles were scarce nowadays.

Connor was also reasonably sure the one in the magazine had not actually been a biker. Too much exposed skin for someone to have while riding at full-speed. 

Still, that had only been a couple of idle thoughts while scouting out the Khan’s camp. A lot of leather and muscles that were irrelevant except as something to briefly consider on a cold night. Nothing substantial. Nothing that would affect his judgment. If anything, something that would have given him more reason to take the shot.

It could have been nothing but a thought. Until Hank had figured him out. Until Hank had proven himself intelligent. Observant. Competent. 

That had been… interesting. In a way that, yes, might have gotten certain motors running. Might have gotten certain curiosities going in a way that wasn’t entirely (but partially) physical.

But Nines didn’t need to know. Besides. It wasn’t severely affecting his judgment. Connor was above that. 

As Connor’s mind drifted with thoughts about how he was definitely above getting distracted by such things, he was pulled back into the present by Nines shifting up a little, suddenly looking with more interest through his scope.

“Are you seeing this?” Nines asked quietly, rifle pointing further down the road at a speck in the distance. 

Connor lifted his binoculars up and had a look further down the road. 

One caravaneer and four guards, with the caravaneer distinguishable only from the fact that he had the brahmin’s lead in his hands. His gaze was quickly drawn to the weapons on the man’s hip and slung over his back. A laser pistol, clearly modified, sat on his hip. Over his back was a rifle with green liquid bubbling along the barrel. A plasma rifle, very rare in these parts. All four guards carried similar weaponry. All of them, both the guards and the one heading the caravan, also wore combat armor painted black. Only one group that Connor knew of wore that particular uniform.

“Van Graffs,” Connor breathed. 

Van Graffs were more well-known out west, but they occasionally sent caravans through the Mojave. Word was that they had considered establishing business out here but had yet to see the profit in it.

The important things to note about that family? They dealt largely in energy weapons, and they were as mean and ruthless as Amanda’s gang were. This caravan would be a struggle to take, but it would be well worth it if they could.

Nines focused on the caravan with a small frown. After a moment, he shook his head. “We could fight them head-on, but they’ll be well-trained and they have superior weaponry. We would likely suffer casualties. If we do an ambush--”

“They won’t follow me off the road,” Connor said. “They’ll stay with the caravan. Van Graffs won’t stop to help an innocent, and they’re too professional to prey on anyone not actively pestering them.”

“So we can’t use you as bait. Means that we can’t take them in alive. It’s risky either way. I think we should allow them passage and wait for someone else.”

Connor’s mouth tightened as he eyed the caravan. “Energy weapons, though. Amanda would be so pleased to have one. The price we could get for them. And the guards would be well-trained. If any of them are actually part of the Van Graff family or well-valued, we could also ransom them back.”

“If we succeed.”

Connor mulled them for a moment before saying, “I have a plan. They’ll be on guard for an ambush. I can give them one. If they’re staring one in the face, they won’t be looking for one coming in from behind.”

It took a moment to click. Then Nines narrowed his eyes, lowering his rifle to scowl at Connor. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? If it works--”

“If. That’s a big if. If it doesn’t, you will die. I can’t mend you if you collapse into a pile of radioactive goo.”

“Microfusion cells are expensive. They won’t want to waste them this far away from their source and I’m skilled at looking too pathetic to shoot. If these are Van Graffs… they’ll know the value in making an example of someone.” Connor’s mouth twitched into a slight smile. “If they want a real example--not just a pile of ash or goo--they’ll need to make it slow or wait until a witness is present.”

Amanda had made examples of people in the past. Connor knew how this worked.

“No,” Nines repeated.

“Do I have to ask Amanda?”

Nines’ mouth tightened and he shut his eyes for a moment. He knew full well that in this case, Amanda would side with Connor. He remained like that for a moment before opening them and focusing back on the caravan.

“Fine. Where are you going to halt them?”

 

* * *

So it was that, ten minutes later, Connor was half-concealed behind part of the bridge, now close to the ground, while Nines went to retrieve the others and set them up.

He was armed today with a cheap, scratched-up shotgun. However, Connor was gripping it in an unprofessional way. One hand was holding the barrel, even though Connor knew full-well that shooting would severely burn his hand if he held it like that. Otherwise, he had no armor. He wasn’t even wearing shoes, having kicked them off and hidden them to look extra unprepared. His clothes were ragged as usual, and he’d smudged just a little extra dirt on his face since Nines wiping the blood off his face a week ago meant he didn’t have the full layer of grime.

Where he crouched, he looked like he was trying to hide. In actual fact, though, surprising them would be the best way to get himself shot too quickly. So he kept half-visible, trying to look as incompetent as possible.

He waited. And soon the caravan became visible. Two brahmin lumbering along, the two-headed bovines occasionally making grumpy little moos as they followed the leader of this crew of Van Graffs. Then Connor edged a little further out.

_ You just didn’t look scared. _

Connor shut his eyes for a moment. Trying to remember what it was like to be scared. Trying to forget what it was like to be accepting of this. He tried to remember his first time playing bait. No gun. Similar rags. 

He’d been ten. He’d been terrified. He had barely managed three words without fumbling all over the place.

When had that stopped? He tried to recall white-hot fear curdling in his stomach. Hands shaking. The tightness in his throat as he’d had to crane his neck to look at his supposed victims in the face, and hope that Amanda wasn’t lying just to get rid of him. Hoping she’d been right.

Connor breathed out. He opened his eyes. And he stepped out into the open once they were close enough to see him, before raising his shotgun and pulling the trigger. Not holding it right, holding it both incorrectly and too loosely.

The shot largely hit the ground feet in front of the caravan, causing the brahmin to make distressed bellows and try to rush off, guided back into place by the caravan leader. At the same time, true to prediction, the barrel underneath Connor’s hands burned white-hot and scalded the palm of his hand, and Connor dropped the gun.

The guards were already raising their guns. Going for their pistols rather than their rifles. He wasn’t worth rifles. Connor threw his hands into the air and crouched.

“Wait!” No, too commanding. Too clear. Connor swallowed, trying to inject a shake into his voice. “W-wait! This was a mistake! I didn’t--”

One of the guards fired. He was using a plasma pistol, and the green, glowing projectile flew towards him. Just barely slower than a regular bullet, but enough that Connor could see it coming and roll clumsily to the side. Thankfully, he was a small target to begin with, especially crouched like this. 

“I surrender! It was a m-mistake!” he called out.

The caravan leader gestured at the guards. Two of them moved towards him quickly, but they didn’t fire again. No use wasting ammo, although they might start bludgeoning him once they got close. Wouldn’t be the first time, even barring that rifle to the face he’d gotten from Gavin. One of them kicked the shotgun away as he approached. The other lashed out with her boot and kicked him onto his back. 

Connor let her go ahead. Held up his hands. Put some effort into making them tremble. Started babbling. The ones that babbled most when Amanda caught them usually had the least of importance to say.

“Please, I didn’t mean any harm, I just--I was desperate. I made a m-mistake, I thought that maybe I could get the drop and steal a better gun, so that I could keep the cannibals and the Boot Riders off my ma’s land. But I hadn’t used her gun before and--”

A gun pressed up near his face. Connor could feel heat from the green liquid bubbling in the barrel. Connor shut his eyes and tried turning away his face, clamming up on his irrelevant babble.

Please bite. Please bite. Please bite.

There was a pause. He opened one eye slightly to see the one prodding him with the gun kneel down by him.

“You thought you stood a chance against us? Do you fucking know who we are?”

Hook, line and sinker.

Connor shut his eyes again. The eyes had given him away last time. It wasn’t ideal, but it would work for now.

“No, I… I don’t know of anyone who uses the fancier guns… I know the cannibals and the Boot Riders and the Khans and the--” The gun pressed a little further into the side of his face, the barrel starting to make his skin blister from the heat. “Please, I didn’t know!”

He heard footsteps shift closer to where the brahmin were, and chanced opening his eyes to look. The caravaneer was handing off the reins to one of the other guards and starting to move towards him, hand casually drifting towards his laser pistol. He was a sizeable man with a shaved head that was offset by a dark beard. As Connor looked at him, he saw movement flicker in the ruins out of the corner of his eye.

Someone was getting into position. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to stall for much longer.

“Anyone else?” the caravaneer asked.

“N--” Connor started, then stopped. Paused for a moment. Purposefully averted his eyes. “Y-yes. There’s lots of them. My whole family is… they’re all here.” 

Truths said with a stutter always sounded like lies. The Van Graffs cast a cursory, casual glance about before their focus zoned back in on Connor. They didn’t look close, didn’t send out anyone to check the surroundings. Instead, the caravaneer gestured for the guards crowding Connor to back off slightly before drawing his own laser pistol

“We’re the Van Graffs, boy. And Momma don’t like it when people pick on our caravans. Neither do I, come to think of it.”

Connor kept his eyes averted and tried not to smile. If ‘Momma’ was the Van Graff matriarch, that would make this an actual Van Graff, not just a lackey. Ransom money near-assured. Amanda was going to be very hap--

A boot jammed into his stomach, pushing the air out of his lungs in a rush. Right, there was still that.

“Please, I know we got off on the w-wrong foot. But I… I can tell you’re really important, and if you let me go I’ll… I’ll make sure no-one bothers you again! Not that you need it, you’re clearly very important and terrifying and--”

“Be quiet.”

“Okay.” Connor shut his eyes again, tried to keep his breathing a little unsteady. He recalled Hank’s tips about nerves making people thirsty and licked his lips before curling up slightly more. As much as he could around the boot that was still slowly pushing down on his chest.

The caravaneer leaned forward, forcing an actually involuntary wheeze to spill from Connor as he put more pressure on the armored boot pressing down.

“I think you’re not all that convincing, boy.”

Oh no. Connor kept his eyes shut tight, but his breathing got shakier. This time slightly more legitimate. 

The caravaneer waited, savoring the uncomfortable silence for a moment. Then he kicked Connor again hard, boot colliding with something that made a vicious crack. Another kick. Then another. Connor didn’t try pleading. He didn’t have the breath for it.

Finally, the man spoke again.

“I think we need more than your flimsy word to spread. I think we need to make a proper example out of you.”

Oh.

“Leave you with something that can show anyone who asks what the Van Graffs do to people who fuck with ‘em.”

Oh, that was all. That was fine. That was expected. 

Connor’s wheezing stilled a little, even as the man gave him another rough kick to the chest. He heard something crack again. Probably a rib, Connor thought dispassionately. He shifted slightly, and a sharp pain ran through his chest. Yes. Definitely a rib.

This was quite quickly collapsing back into typical baiting. With it was coming in his usual defence mechanism of simply thinking about something else. Usually dogs. Dogs were usually distant from--

Another boot to the chest. Another crack. Then another. Then another.

\--whatever was occurring, since the ones who tended to keep vicious dogs were rarely worth ambushing. Connor had regularly gone over the argument he’d use if he ever attempted to convince Amanda that a guard dog would benefit them. He’d never summon the courage to go through with it, of course, but--

A hand gripped the front of his shirt and yanked him up.

\--it was sometimes nice to think about.

“Quiet now, huh?” the caravaneer asked, pulling him up an inch more.

Oh. Right.

Connor tried to pull himself back to the present, although part of him recoiled at the idea of doing so. Baiting was simply… easier if he managed to distance himself from it. It was something he’d gotten very good at throughout the years. Something he could switch on the moment that they started to get violent.

But it was showing. It was how Hank had known. He couldn’t have that. He needed to stay shaky. Look afraid. He didn’t want to fail this. He couldn’t fail this. He couldn’t disappoint Amanda. 

And that was the thought that got him trembling again, so he latched onto it. 

He couldn’t fail Amanda. He couldn’t fail Amanda. He couldn’t--

This time the man smashed a bare fist--the armor only went to the upper arm and largely left the arms bare--into Connor’s face. Pity. His nose had been on the mend.

Couldn’t fail Amanda.

Another blow to the face, this time catching him on the side of the face, inches from one of his eyes.

Couldn’t fail Amanda.

Then a pause. Connor chanced trying to open his eyes--one was stinging too much. The Van Graff caravaneer was running a finger over the handle of his laser pistol in a way that Connor didn’t particularly appreciate.

“...Hold him down,” the caravaneer said to the guards. “Keep that arm still. I don’t want to mess up my linework.”

...That didn’t sound pleasant.

Couldn’t fail Amanda.

Connor made a token effort to get away, although even if he’d wanted to… his chances were slim with only a knife concealed on his person. With the way they were pinning him down now, he couldn’t have reached for it even if he wanted to. One was just making it harder for him to struggle, but the other was flattening his arm out. Right arm. 

Couldn’t fail Amanda.

The caravaneer let go of the front of his shirt before tapping the laser pistol the side of his face for a moment. Thumb sliding on one of the dials on the gun, switching some setting that Connor didn’t understand. Energy weapons weren’t part of his knowledge beyond the basics.

“When we’re done here… you run back home to your family, and you show them the scars. And you tell anyone you meet that we expect to walk this road cleanly. That we expect not to be bothered.”

...He didn’t want to be shaking anymore. Shaking would make this worse.

He shut his eyes again, this time a little tighter. And he distanced himself. Only allowing himself one thought relating to the situation. That Nines was nearby. Immediately, that calmed his shakes. 

He followed that up with thoughts about dogs. About trivial matters that needed to be dealt with back at camp. About what needed to be retrieved for dinner and how to persuade Sixty to cook, since--

There was the click of a trigger being pulled, and an intense, focused feeling of agony burned along Connor’s upper arm. 

It stuttered his thoughts. He lost track of them for a moment, scrambling to find the pleasant trail of thought that would keep him out of this.

...Sixty’s cooking. Yes. He was better at it. He could be persuaded to cook, but didn’t like to. Thought it was ‘maid’ work. Connor had always thought--

Another click, another streak of horrific warmth. This one starting where the last had ended. Connor heard a wheezy noise. It almost sounded like a scream.

What had he thought? He’d thought… something about how pictures of maids were always inside houses, so Sixty couldn’t be a maid because they didn’t have a house. Maids were also usually robotic in the pre-war. Connor had seen an ad in the same magazine as the one with the biker--

Third click. Third burning line, this one a little further along. Though it was getting difficult to distinguish where each particular burst of pain was coming from. Another pathetic wheezing sound. Another attempt at a scream. His throat itched. Oh. That noise was coming from him. 

What had he--right. The biker. Hank? No, he hadn’t been thinking about that. He could, though. That was a nice thought. He could tell Hank that his advice had been sound. Perhaps they could trade advice again. Perhaps--

He heard a familiar--and very welcome--sound. 

The sound of several dart guns being fired in unison.

Connor did smile the tiniest bit at this. Especially when he opened his eyes to see darts--multiple, one in the neck, one in the man’s bare arm--sprouting from the caravaneer. Others sprouting from the guards that had, until a moment ago, been holding him down.

The guards, sedatives not in effect yet, jumped out of Connor’s immediate and limited sight. He heard multiple guns go off, all with a more electronic tint than he was used to. The caravaneer--still looming over him--reached up and pulled the dart from his neck, only for another one to land almost squarely in the same place. The caravaneer moved to get up, staring around at their surroundings. Then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed.

Unfortunately, he collapsed directly on Connor’s broken ribs. The noise Connor made was not particularly dignified.

More gunshots. A few more dart noises. Then silence fell. However, it was only momentary. The brief calm to see if anyone was still left to shoot down. 

Then Connor heard footsteps fanning out from the ruins around them. A couple of sets were quicker, bolting directly for him. There was a grunt as the unconscious caravaneer was hauled off Connor.

“This guy weighs a ton. Look at his armor, though. Dibs,” Sixty said, shoving the caravaneer off to the side before crouching properly next to Connor. “You dead?”

“Haven’t checked,” Connor rasped.

“You look terrible.” Sixty said this in an almost cheery way, but he still reached out and slung Connor’s non-burned arm over his shoulder, trying to pull him to his feet. Doing so made Connor’s ribs burn something awful, resulting in another choked hiss. Sixty quickly put him back down again. “Sound terrible, too. I’ll get Nines. He’s better at babying you. Hey, Ni--”

Sixty didn’t even get out the name before he was practically bulldozed by Nines shoving his way past, skidding to his knees before immediately looking over the injuries. Face still impassive except for how his eyes were darting from injury to injury. His hands hovering in a slightly panicked way, like he wasn’t sure where to start.

Connor reached out with his non-burnt arm and gave Nines a brief pat on the wrist.

“I told you it would work,” he said, voice still raspy but with a bit more air available to him.

Nines said nothing. He looked somewhat at a loss for words, hands still hovering and jittery. Sixty, meanwhile, peered over his shoulder.

“Why do you have a math symbol burned into your arm?” Sixty asked.

Connor finally looked properly at the damage done by the laser pistol. His skin had been scorched in three very precise lines, lines that were black but surrounded by a shiny red. One was shaped like a V while the other looked to be the beginning of a capital A. Presumably the caravaneer had meant to put ‘VAN GRAFF’ on there. Connor would hate to tell him that it was a wasted effort. Most wastelanders couldn’t read well enough to have recognised it.

“...Math?”

“Looks like the symbol for ‘less than.’ Now you’ll look more apropos when you stand next to Nines.”

Nines might have normally told Sixty to knock it off. He was still silent. His hands steadied slightly, however, and he started checking Connor’s face. Presumably since those blows were more inherently obvious, even if they weren’t as severe as the chest felt.

Connor could hear orders being given. He could hear Amanda’s voice. Soon, once all orders had been given regarding the unconscious Van Graffs and the cargo, he saw the flutter of the white poncho on the edge of his vision.

“Connor,” she said as way of greeting, crouching beside him. She looked at him for a moment, her eyes sweeping over his injuries. “Are you able to travel back to camp?”

“I…” Connor considered it for a moment before frowning slightly. “I may not be able to move under my own power. He broke at least one rib. But I can try.”

“No need. Nines and Sixty, you’re responsible for getting your brother back to camp. When you get there, make sure he has a good spot near the fire.” Amanda reached into one of the pockets on her belt. After a couple of moments of rummaging, she retrieved two stimpaks and a syringe of Med-X. “This will help.” She handed them to Nines to administer.

Connor blinked, eyes on the Med-X in particular. Med-X was generally reserved for bigger emergencies than a broken rib. He didn’t need that much to dull the pain, even if it would certainly be welcome.

“You earned this, Connor,” Amanda said firmly. As if she could hear his doubts. She offered him a very rare smile. “Well done.” Then she turned and left to continue giving orders to the others.

Sixty watched her leave with a faint frown tugging at his lips. Nines didn’t even look up, only nodding vaguely when he took the stimpaks and Med-X. Now he was reaching forward to carefully feel out where Connor’s torso was most damaged, trying to figure out where the stimpak needed to go.

Connor just smiled himself and shut his eyes to try and relax a little while Nines did his work. 

Amanda was happy. Mission accomplished.

 

* * *

It had taken them some time and a lot of hard work, but they’d finished reinforcing their new camp. The Khans had a home again. It was the first time in a long while.

They’d set up their camp in the ruins of North Vegas, where there was enough room to pitch up their yurts for sleeping and storing whatever few belongings they had and didn’t want to carry around at all times of the day. Every Khan could carry everything they owned, but it wasn’t always the time for it. Their camp was bordered by the ruins of old vehicles, shifted with the manpower of multiple strong warriors to create something of a wall between them and the outside world.

They hadn’t figured out if farming was possible yet. That would take time to set up, if it was. Hank had some solid hopes for the land around here, though. Shit was pretty fucked, but it wasn’t irradiated to all hell like some places. In the meantime, they still had whatever they could scavenge or steal, and they’d found some bighorners to feast on.

It was starting to seem like a solid base. But Hank still stared at their makeshift walls and barricades with a critical eye. Don't get him wrong. Khans were tough motherfuckers. The toughest. It didn't get any badder than them. 

But there were always dangers waiting to get in. Angry wildlife. Raiders too drugged up to realise they'd been shot. The NCR walking in pretending like sticking a flag in the ground meant you owned the place. And there were always those once-in-a-generation assholes who could breeze through a full camp with a cheap gun and a couple of friends and leave nothing but corpses. Hank had seen that happen before, a long time ago. There was probably a name for those kinds of people. 

He knew better than most that there was no such thing as safety, no matter how well-prepared they were.

As Hank stared at the walls they’d formed around their camp he could hear the crackling of a bonfire behind him and the smell of roasting bighorner. He could also hear a lot of raucous chatter. Glancing back behind him, he could see that some of the Khans had cracked open some scavenged liquor and were celebrating having a place to lie down for once. 

A few of them were passing a bottle and arguing about some incident that had happened on the way, something about a fist fight where the winner was being disputed. Some of the kids, too young to wear the Khan vests, were clustered together and tearing into some bighorner steak kabobs. One of them was currently ignoring his food in favor of flicking through the knight comic Hank had scooped up, which had been passed around quite thoroughly. 

Hank could see Gavin and Tina lazing about near the fire. Gavin talking animatedly while Tina sometimes gestured in response and occasionally swiped chunks of food from him while he was too busy talking to pay attention. Something she only did when there was plenty of food to go around, when playful theft wouldn’t mean starvation. 

All of them were feeling safe and at ease. All of those gathered around the fire were also younger than him, all of them in their twenties or less, just as the bulk of the Khans were. Too young to remember any of the bigger losses the Khans had suffered. Maybe that’s why they felt more optimistic about their chances.

Hank returned to staring at the walls, eyes scouring for gaps. As he did, he heard heavy footsteps behind him before a bighorner kabob was shoved in his direction, roasted meat and chunks of whatever fruits they could scavenge giving off a smell that made Hank’s stomach growl.

“Eat. Every warrior needs food, and you’ll be no shape to fight anything if you’re skin and bones.” Papa Khan pushed the food into his hands. In his other hand he was holding a bottle of whiskey, which he took a swig of as he started surveying the walls alongside Hank.

The leader of the Khans was a sizeable man, size that was only made more obvious from the animal furs tossed over the shoulders of his vest and from the dark, bushy beard that covered his face. He wore a helmet with two horns sprouting from it, and his voice contained a deep, pleasant burr that captivated the attention of the people who followed him. He’d earned his place as their leader by pulling their scattered tribe together and leading them out of California

Papa Khan was not blood-related to Hank in any sense of the word. But he was the closest to a father figure that most of their tribe had, given the average lifespan of a raider and the losses they’d suffered in the past. Hank was no exception to that, for all that he was too old to really need it.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Hank tore a chunk of meat off the kabob with his teeth, savoring the juices for a moment before continuing. “You think it’ll hold?”

“Against the average waster? Definitely. Anyone who gets beyond it will have quite the fight on their hands.”

Hank grunted doubtfully, fiddling with the kabob stick. Papa Khan looked sideways at him before clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“No NCR in these lands, nor have we seen a single blue jumpsuit. We’re back in the proper wastes now, with no man to call master. You’re seeing ghosts where there are none.” He shook Hank’s shoulder slightly before saying, “The Khans will flourish here. You have my word on that.”

Hank’s mouth tugged up slightly despite his doubts. It was easier to believe something when it came through Papa’s deep, reassuring tones.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’ll be fine. I just want to be careful. I don’t think it’s going to be Vault 15 all over again, but… fuck.”

“Worried about the Slither Kin?”

Hank pulled a face before taking another bite of his meal. “I think they’re gonna be a fucking problem. But I wouldn’t say worried.”

“You were leading the party that got ambushed. How would you suggest we deal with them?” Papa took another swig as he waited patiently for Hank’s answer.

“Easy.” Hank shifted the kabob so he could thump his fist into his other hand. “A full-on assault. Scout them out first, figure out their numbers and their weak points. We’d need to prepare. But they’re not warriors. They’re sneaky motherfuckers who use poisons and traps to get an edge. If we match their numbers and fight them on our terms, then we have the advantage. And I think we should do it before they have time to plan a new ambush.”

Connor had, after all, admitted straight-up that they’d used up the element of surprise. He was smart, though. Connor would eventually find another method of fucking with him. And if Connor was representative of the other Slither Kin? Fuck, they would be a problem if they were left alone.

On the other hand, though, Connor had seemed reasonable enough.

“Reckon a truce might be possible, though,” Hank said. “But I dunno. Depends on what their leader is like. Only got what the locals told me, and they don’t have a lot of words on her except for ‘oh shit fuck run.’ Not the best sign, I guess.”

“Hmm… if we truce, we need to reinforce that it’s on our terms. Surrendering to a group of shock troops would make us look weak,” Papa Khan muttered. “Let’s see what the scouts have to say first.” He clapped his hand on Hank’s shoulder once more. “But that can wait until the sunrise. For now, you should celebrate with the others. You’ve earned some respite, Hank.”

He turned and headed back to the fire, to settle down next to his right-hand man and some of the other higher ups. Hank watched him go, then his attention drifted back to the wall.

One way or another, he was pretty sure they could deal with Amanda and her gang. They were a problem, but they weren’t insurmountable. They weren’t those once-in-a-generation invincible bastards. They were just assholes.

Hank tore off another chunk of kabob before turning and heading for the bonfire. No use worrying about it now. They had a home for today. That would have to be enough.

 

* * *

Connor couldn’t properly recall most of the trip back. Just that he’d been slung over someone’s back. Probably Nines, although he couldn’t be absolutely certain. 

He was feeling good, though. The Med-X had kicked in fast, and all his injuries felt distant and unimportant. It made him feel warm and sleepy, in a way that made him understand why some wastelanders grew addicted to the chem. It made him a little afraid of needing it too often.

Only a little, though, and it was a distant worry.

He only blinked back into proper consciousness some time after he’d been propped up by the fire.

It was darker. The fire was the primary source of light. It illuminated Nines, who was sitting beside him. Medical kit open at his feet, but he wasn’t currently doing anything with it. He had his knees pulled up to his chest, his eyes staring distantly at the other side of the fire. Connor watched him for a moment, then he looked to where Nines’ gaze was directed.

The five that they’d taken prisoner were lined up and bound tight. Three of them were awake, their eyes blinking and darting around. One looked to be groggily stirring, still on their way to consciousness. The caravaneer, however, was entirely unconscious. Likely because he’d been hit with extra darts.

Amanda was standing patiently by them. Hands clasped in front of her, poncho drifting in the breeze. The caravaneer’s laser pistol was strapped to her waist. The one used to burn Connor’s arm with such deliberate intent. Connor couldn’t help but frown a little at the sight of it. 

Sixty was standing on the other side of the captives with significantly less patience. He had slipped on some brass knuckles for the occasion, and his fingers were lightly drumming as he crossed his arms and waited. Others had gathered around, waiting and watching. The firelight making their eyes glint as they eyed their prey.

Although Connor hadn’t moved or done anything to attract attention, Amanda turned her head to look at him as if he had. She eyed him for a moment, then looked at Nines before gesturing for them to move closer. Nines glanced at Connor before reaching over and scooping him up.

“I can walk a few feet,” Connor protested sleepily.

Nines ignored him, moving towards Amanda before carefully placing Connor back down on his feet. There was something of a twinge in his chest, but it was still suppressed by the Med-X. The Stimpaks had also at least jumpstarted the healing process. He’d be sore for a couple of weeks, likely not able to leave the camp for that time, but he’d recover.

Once he was there, Amanda turned her attention to the caravaneer.

“Sixty. Wake him up,” she said calmly.

Sixty’s mouth quirked up a little as he stepped towards the caravaneer, before swinging his hand forward. It was more of a slap than a punch, but the brass knuckles added extra impact. The response was a sluggish, strangled groan before the man’s eyes blinked open. Eyes a little glazed as he stared around.

“The fuck?” he mumbled. 

He looked at Amanda, then at Nines and Sixty. Confusion on his face for Amanda, but rage starting to creep in when he looked at Connor’s brothers. Finally, his gaze landed on Connor. He struggled to straighten up a little at the sight of him. Rage starting to overtake everything.

“Oh, you son of a bitch!” he snarled, eyes coming into focus.

“I told you that they were there,” Connor said mildly. “You should have listened.”

“Fuck you.”

Connor didn’t dignify the ineloquent, base response with an answer. Instead, he looked at Amanda.

“I gathered from the talk we had that he’s a son of the Van Graff matriarch,” Connor told her. “It’s possible she would pay a sizeable amount for his safe return. Possibly also for the return of her other staff, but near-certainly for him.”

The caravaneer turned his head towards Amanda. He tilted it slightly with a frown, then looked around at his situation. Then back at her.

“And who the fuck are you supposed to be?” Despite the words, the tone was more curious. He was eying Amanda with an odd wariness. Amanda, in turn, regarded him as if he was a small and vaguely annoying bug.

“Are you one of Tiamat’s sons?” Amanda asked.

“That’s right.” The mention of his mother immediately injected confidence back into his voice. The man straightened up further, trying to look as proud and tough as he could with his hands behind his back. “And you don’t fuck with the Van Graffs, lady. You fuck me over, she’ll fuck you over ten times as hard. You better hope she wants to pay caps, because if she don’t… well, your ass is grass, bitch. By which I mean mostly dead, because we’re basically in the fuckin’ desert.”

Amanda eyed him for a moment, then looked back to Connor. As she did, her hand came to rest on the laser pistol strapped to her hip.

“Connor. Is this the man who harmed you?”

Her voice was dead calm. The calm before a storm. And the Van Graff could tell, because he immediately went silent. His eyes moving over to Connor, lingering on the noticeable injuries. Connor stared back at him, head tilting slightly.

He considered the monetary value of a son of the Van Graff matriarch. The numerous advantages to keeping the man alive and unspoiled. He considered the value of mercy.

But, even underneath the Med-X, he could feel just enough of the burn leaking through his arm. The blood dripping from his face. The cracks in his ribs.

“Yes. That would be him,” Connor said. His voice the exact type of calm as Amanda’s.

Perhaps it wasn’t only Sixty who’d inherited a certain level of pettiness.

Amanda nodded and drew the laser pistol.

“Sixty, if you would hold him down?”

The man immediately began to thrash as Sixty grabbed his arms, shoving him flat on the ground. Unfastening his bindings just enough to free one arm, but only so he could flatten it much as the Van Graff had done to Connor earlier.

“The fuck are you doing? You want to ruin your prize? You think Momma will pay for a corpse? Do you? Are you fucking morons?!” the man bellowed. He quieted suddenly as Amanda pressed the barrel of the laser pistol to his head.

“I know the benefit of keeping you alive,” Amanda told him. “I know your mother by reputation. I know the Van Graffs. I would have much to gain from doing business with your mother. With reuniting you with her.”

She then moved the gun, pointing it at his arm. The same place where he’d burned Connor, halfway between the shoulder and the elbow.

“I know your family has loyalty, Van Graff. But so do I.”

She pulled the trigger, holding it down despite how doing so burned through ammo. And, slowly, she started to move it down across his arm. But where he had only scorched Connor, she sought to do more. 

The man started screaming. A high, horrific screech that went on and on until he started to run out of breath. Skin burned underneath the laser. Burned deep, before starting to crumble away to ash in a way that ruined the perfection of the carefully controlled line of the initial burn.

Amanda spoke again. Somehow, she could still be heard over the shrieking even though she didn’t raise her voice.

“You harmed my family. That is worth more than whatever your useless life would give if it were spared. So I will take what I am owed.”

With those words, she finished burning through the arm. The limb sloughed to the ground, ash crumbling away at the stump as the man attempted to pull it towards him. Still screaming, loud enough to be heard for miles. 

It was not a new sound. Those living on the land near their camp knew what the screams meant.

Amanda looked sideways at Nines. Then at Sixty. Then back at the screaming Van Graff.

“Keep him alive for as long as possible. Wreak what vengeance you see fit,” she said.

Nines moved forward, his eyes steely and cold as the man shrieked and writhed underneath the hands determined to keep him alive. Different from what was becoming a wide grin on Sixty’s face as he started to go to work. His favourite type of work. Both of them had that glint in their eyes, the glint that spelt the worst for whoever was underneath their hands today.

Amanda watched for a moment before turning towards the four other captives. They were quiet. Some of them were watching their boss, while others had turned their heads away. Amanda approached one of the latter, pressing the barrel of the laser pistol to their head until they turned back.

“Watch. It’s important that you know what happens when we are crossed.” She looked back at Nines and Sixty. “When you’re done, hang what remains outside. Leave the armor on, so that people know who he was.”

“Goddammit,” Sixty murmured under his breath. But he didn’t protest. Even Sixty knew that Amanda’s word was law. Surpassing even the ancient laws of dibs.

Connor could have joined in. But he didn’t see the need. He was content to watch.

He just sat back down, resting near the fire, and watched his brothers work. The warmth of the fire and the Med-X making him feel comfortable and restful as screams tore through the darkness around their camp. It had been a good day, and it would be a good night.

 

* * *

**January 17th, 2280**

 

Connor had a lot of business to take care of.

First there was continuing with counting stock. With looking up the supplies of everything they had in the casino. There was checking income, there was seeing if any of the employees had concerns. If they were meeting their quotas, and why they weren’t if they hadn’t.

There was the matter of making sure the patrons of the casino were happy, and that they weren’t violating any rules. Or that they could at least make things right if they’d committed an offence, such as with Troike and his supposed murder. The Omertas made the law within the casino walls. Those who brought problems to their casino didn’t often leave it.

That went particularly strongly for anyone caught skimming.

“I didn’t steal nothin’!” The blackjack dealer held his hands up, backed up against a wall that was reserved for a very specific purpose. “You just don’t want to blame the customers, so you’re blamin’ me! I didn’t steal!”

“You were storing chips in your shoes,” Connor said flatly. “That is not a traditional place for keeping such things.”

“They fell in there!”

“One, I could accept. Not a dozen.”

“But--”

“Connor.” Amanda was seated in her usual chair--the only piece of furniture in this room, the rest being largely empty apart from old blood stains. This was the room that people almost never left. She was watching the proceedings with a cold eye. She didn’t really need to be here for this, but she preferred to oversee any executions. Just to make sure that they’d been properly done. “He’s repeating himself. I think he's run out of anything relevant to say.”

Connor nodded, raising his gun to the man’s head. The man recoiled, raising his hands and shutting his eyes tightly.

“Alright, alright, I admit it! But I’ll turn it around, I’ll pay you back, I’ll--”

There was a gunshot and a splat. Connor wondered why he even bothered trying to keep his suits clean. He lowered the gun and holstered it, wiping the specks of red from his face and eying the fresh corpse.

Amanda watched for a moment longer, her chin resting delicately on her fingers. Much like the rest of them, she’d discarded the spiked armor and tattered rags of their old gang. Although Connor knew that she still kept her old poncho dangling from a hatstand in her suite. Nowadays she wore a long, elegant dress. As unsettlingly white as the poncho had been, rather than the off-white of the majority of the Omertas. She had her legs crossed as she eyed the mess, making her polished, heeled shoes obvious. The only sign of their old lifestyle was that the fur shawl she wore was coyote furs, made from animals she’d hunted herself back in the day.

The same modified laser pistol she’d taken from the Van Graffs so long ago was still on her hip, too. She had other guns, but she’d always had a fondness for that one. Even though it was clunkier than most and somewhat clashed with her elegant aesthetic.

“Call someone up here to clean this up,” she said dismissively, getting to her feet and keeping a fair berth from the body. Wouldn’t do to stain her clothes. Connor was pretty sure that’s the only reason she didn’t just carry out executions herself.

“Of course, Amanda.” Connor tucked his hands behind his back. “Would you object to me taking the next twelve to twenty-four hours off afterwards? I will still be on the Strip, if anything urgent occurs.”

“What do you need to reserve the time for?”

Connor hesitated for a moment on whether he should tell Amanda. But if he remained on the Strip, someone would take note. They likely already had when Connor hauled an unconscious Hank into the casino.

“I wanted to converse with Hank.”

“...I see. What are you hoping to get out of that?”

It felt like a trap to answer. Especially because, in all honesty, Connor didn’t quite know how to answer in a way that didn’t make him sound rather dim. ‘I want to rekindle a friendship with a man I tried to kill multiple times?’ When he phrased it like that, it just sounded idiotic.

Connor considered the question for far too long, and that in itself must have been answer enough for Amanda. She eyed him closely for a moment, a disapproving frown curling slightly across her face.

“...You did well with Troike. So I will allow this time off, and attempt to not call you back except in the case of an emergency. Since Nines isn’t back, I cannot make many promises.”

“Understandable,” Connor said, nodding. “Thank you, Amanda.”

He turned to go, but Amanda spoke before he could do so.

“Connor. We’re better off now. You do understand that, don’t you?” she asked, staring at him with that look. That one that made it seem like she was reaching into his skull and pulling all his most treacherous thoughts out of it.

“Of course I know that,” Connor said.

He tried to keep eye contact when he said that. He really did. But maybe his eyes slid down for just the briefest moment.

Amanda’s mouth tightened further, but then she waved her hand.

“You can go now.”

Connor nodded and walked out, stepping over the body of the dead blackjack dealer to do so.


	4. Let Me Show You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, Hank tries tracking Connor to the Slither Kin's base. In the present, the two attempt to converse at Gomorrah.
> 
> In both past and present, a stream of unwanted guests makes their objectives difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been longer than intended. Largely because I finished my spring time job and as a result re-discovered video games and went on a bit of a binge. I'll try not to lose the rhythm so much again.

**July 22nd, 2267**

 

This time, it was Hank’s turn to hunt Connor down.

It was nothing particularly personal. The Khans needed to know where the Slither Kin were to attempt any sort of retaliation or plan, and Hank only knew a few of them by face. Amanda didn’t seem the sort to wander aimlessly, which left him with the three brothers.

He saw that face--no matter which brother it was, the face was familiar--around. But he saw the other two brothers around before he saw Connor. 

Nines he caught a glimpse of first. 

The eldest brother moved quickly through the ruins, and didn’t often stop to scavenge items. Hank had watched him from a distance, and seen how he checked corners. Looked in hiding spots. Occasionally rigged up traps designed to incapacitate rather than kill outside the doors of houses, then made enough noise to try and clear out anyone who might be hiding within. A silent, strategic hunter.

Hank saw him catch someone. A scrawny wastelander, not really worth anything. Messy, flyaway hair and the shakes of an addict who spent whatever they could scrounge up on Jet or Med-X. They’d come running out of a house only to trip on the bear trap that Nines had rigged outside, the poor bastard.

Hank had watched through binoculars as Nines walked slowly up to the man. Examined him coldly, occasionally raising his gun when the wastelander was too loud, threatening him into silence without saying a word.

Two minutes of examination had passed. Then Nines had crouched and released the bear trap, and simply left. Allowing the wastelander to hobble away and nurse his mangled leg.

The issue with Nines is he knew how to move quietly, and he vanished from sight too easily. Hank lost track of him quickly when he tried to follow. Or perhaps he’d been distracted by the wastelander. Distracted wondering why Nines had let him go.

Another time, he’d seen who he thought was Connor. Sixty was difficult to discern, especially at a distance.

But there were two tipoffs. One was that Sixty was armored. The similar spikes and leather that Nines and the other Slither Kin wore. Like if Grognak the Barbarian went through a rebellious phase. 

The other tipoff was that, on shifting his position, Hank had seen what Sixty was doing. He was elbow deep in what looked like an extensive torture session with yet another poor bastard of a wastelander. Hell, it could have even been the same one that Nines had let go. Hank couldn’t tell, because by the time he got there the thing that had once been a person was just a mess of squirming, red meat.

Hank had watched, and fought the urge to vomit--waste of what food they had, to puke it back up--as Sixty had rummaged inside the wastelander and pulled out… something. Something pink and squishy. Sixty had spent some time poking at whatever it had been before tossing it over his shoulder and picking up his knife again. His arms had been soaked red to the elbows, and the rest of his clothes weren’t much better.

There seemed to be no purpose to what he was doing. Just systematically taking parts out, looking at them for a bit, and then throwing them away.

Hank could have followed him. But he hadn’t wanted to watch that torture session go on, and had left before it was done.

So he hadn’t yet found the Slither Kin’s hideout, but he had observed. Enough to know that Nines and Sixty were both hunters, albeit of different stripes. One a silent, professional shadow. One a crazed animal.

He’d seen two out of three brothers. Connor, on the other hand, had seemingly dropped off the face of the planet for the last week. 

But, finally, Hank spotted him again. Wandering through North Vegas and poking through abandoned stores for anything left over. Lingering around a bookstore, of all places. Bookstores were an odd place for scavengers, as people either devoted whole-minded focus to them or eschewed them entirely. Usually depending on their literacy level.

This time he was sure it was Connor for two reasons. One was also the clothes. Connor, unlike everyone in his gang, still eschewed armor in favor of clothes that made him look like a regular wastelander. Although they were brahmin-skin overalls rather than the rags he’d been wearing before. A bit less stained, a bit less horrifically baggy.

The bigger tip-off is that he’d clearly been beaten to shit recently.

Hank squinted through his binoculars at the bruising scattered across Connor’s face, and at the slight limp to his walk. The bruises had faded enough that they might have been weeks old, except they couldn’t have been. Hank had last seen him within that timeframe. So the Slither Kin must have had some stimpaks on hand, something that sped up the healing process. It also meant it couldn’t be Sixty, since Sixty had barely been bruised at all while torturing that wastelander and that’d been within the last three days.

Hank watched from his ledge on one of the other buildings, watching Connor peer through the windows before pushing open the door and entering, and he grinned to himself. With that limp, Connor wasn’t moving fast. He’d be easy to track.

As he thought this, fate decided to slap him in the face. Movement came from the early evening shadows of the ruins surrounding the building Connor had just waltzed into. 

Hank lifted the binoculars again and saw people creeping quietly towards the building. Five of them. He couldn’t see their faces for the most part, because they wore masks. Hewn from scavenged materials and painted with whatever they could find lying around. Enough to obscure their faces, but not enough to hide the wild glimmer in their eyes. Some of them carried guns, others carried machetes. All of them had blood encrusting their hands, and those whose masks didn’t hide their mouths clearly had blood smeared across their lips, too.

Hank grimaced. The Khans hadn’t been in Vegas for long, but they knew of the group of cannibals that lived in the area. Of course they’d be tracking Connor. Beat to hell like that, moving slow? It was like a hunter going after a three-legged deer. 

He considered his options. Five-on-one wasn’t great chances, and he didn’t owe Connor shit. It’d probably help him if they caught and devoured him. One less problem to think about.

But then who the fuck was he going to follow back to the Slither Kin’s base? Besides… getting the flesh torn from your bones and ending up as a pile of cannibal excrement was a literally shitty way to go.

Hank reached over his back for his shotgun, and slid down from his hiding place to get closer. He moved quiet, but that meant moving slower than he would have liked.

When he left his ledge, there had been five cannibals in the shadows. When he got down to the ground and rounded the corner to get another view of the building, he could only see three. Two were already in the store that Connor had slipped into.

Shit.

No time to be subtle. So instead Hank whistled.

“You really gonna chase something that stringy?” he called out.

When the closest turned to him, eyes bright and hungry, Hank pulled the trigger of his shotgun, splattering the man on the wall. That got more attention than the dumb quip had, but cannibals were just so fuckin’ easy to quip at. The puns possible. God, the puns.

Plus, if Hank thought about puns and dumb jokes, it meant he didn’t have to think about what’d happen to him if he lost. 

The other two rounded on him, weapons raised. One with a machete and no gun at all, perhaps not wanting to dig lumps of lead out of his meal. The other drew a handgun. Hank ducked back quickly behind the corner as a bullet went whizzing by.

From inside, he heard gunshots. 

Well, shit.

Hank waited for a pause in the gunshots before springing up and firing again. The handgun tumbled to the floor, followed by a mangled corpse. The third cannibal, the one holding the machete, only remained still for another couple of moments. Then he turned and bolted, dropping his machete in a haste to get away.

Hank sighed before raising the shotgun again. Honestly, he did not like shooting people in the back. Felt cowardly. But the odds were too good that he’d go back and find reinforcements. Besides, guy was a cannibal. If anyone deserved to be shot in the back...

He fired again. Now it wasn’t a problem he had to think about anymore. Now he just had to worry about the two inside with Connor.

He hadn’t heard gunshots since the first batch. Hank reloaded his shotgun before pressing his back to the wall, listening for noise. Nothing. Slowly, he reached out and pushed the door open before stepping inside.

He was greeted with the smell of musty, moth-bitten paper. His foot almost immediately connected with a body on the ground. 

Huh. 

Hank turned the body over with his foot, not that he really needed to. Connor wasn’t that size, or covered in that much blood. The cause of death seemed to be a bullet through the jaw, and a gun had fallen near the man’s hand. One that looked like it might match the bullet that had ended the cannibal.

Connor’s gun? Or the cannibal’s gun used against him? Could be either. 

Hank scanned the room and saw patches of the floor where the dust had been scruffed by footsteps. That way.

He tried moving quietly. But those fucking floors. Always those fucking floors, creaking like rusty bedsprings on an anniversary. Hank scowled as he moved, slipping quickly through a doorway. Seeing another body on the ground. Five. One left, whether it was Connor or not--

Something hit him from behind. 

Hank twisted, trying to wriggle away from whatever had lunged at him, and managed to catch a wrist before the knife plunged straight into his jugular.

Still, it was enough to throw him off-balance and send him to the floor. He didn’t have much room to move, too much energy was going into keeping that knife away from his neck.

“Connor, you fucking dumbass, it’s me!” Hank wheezed, forcing the knife an inch back. Just enough for him to slug Connor in the face. “Get off!”

Connor whipped his head back, almost unperturbed after Hank punched him, before blinking and tilting his head for a moment. Then the knife lifted slightly, though Connor didn’t put it away.

“Oh. Good morning, Hank.”

“Morning to you too, asshole. Get off my damn chest.”

Connor ignored him. Instead, he tilted his head, only shifting a little. Knife still held at the ready. “Were you following me?”

“...No? Fuck no, I just saw those asshole surrounding the place. The fuck are you doing, limping around? If you're injured you should be holed up.”

“You sound like Nines,” Connor said dismissively.

“Then Nines sounds like the sane one of the fam--Jesus Christ!” Hank yelped as Connor abruptly shoved down on the knife. He managed to divert it in time, causing Connor to scrape the knife against the ground before Hank shoved his wrist back up again, returning them to a standstill. Knife wavering just a few inches from his face.

“Why are you following me, Hank?”

“I wasn’t--”

“Liar,” Connor said. His tone was amiable despite the fact that he was still pushing down on the knife, trying to dig it into Hank’s face. “It can’t just be for whittling down the numbers, or you would have let the cannibals go ahead. What is your objective, Hank?”

“Get that shit away from me,” Hank snapped, pushing the wrist back. Connor leaned further on it, almost casually.

“A hostage? Amanda doesn’t cave into demands, and trading me off to anyone else won’t go well. I have very strong teeth and no compunctions about biting down. It would greatly reduce my value on the market,” Connor said cheerily.

“Wha--oh. Oh, god, no, that’s not what I wanted. Besides, kidnapping has… really not gone well for us in the past.”

“Then torture,” Connor mused. “Obviously.”

“Fuck no! I’m not your weird brother!”

“So you’ve been following him too?”

...Well, shit. Hank said nothing, brain trying to think of an excuse. That hesitation was enough for Connor to tilt his head, shifting so his knee was digging into Hank’s stomach.

“Hank. I don’t want to hurt you. ...Buuuuut.” Connor drew that out in an oddly chipper, lilted tone before forcing the knife an inch closer so it was brushing against Hank’s throat. “I’ll go to work if I need to.”

Hank rolled his eyes, even as the presence of the knife that close made sweat start rolling quietly down his temple. He gave a light--but sharp--smack at Connor’s ribs. This had the side effect of making Connor’s grip jerk violently as he let out a more overt hiss of pain than that’d normally get. 

The knife scraped Hank’s throat and drew red, but only lightly, and Hank took the moment of lost control to grab Connor and toss him off. He landed on his ass a couple of feet away.

“Well, that was just cheating,” Connor said, sounding a little pouty even if it didn’t appear on his face.

“Cheating? What are you, five?” Hank grumbled, sitting up as well and resting his arms on his knees, gingerly touching where Connor’s knife had scraped. “Fuck, last time I help you.”

Connor shrugged, shifting into a less jumbled sitting position. There was a clear wince as he moved. “I thought taking advantage of prior injuries would negate the glory of any victory. You’re a Great Khan, aren’t you? A particularly code-driven one at that.”

“I mean… I’m not a fucking coward, I win my fights fair and square.” Hank’s eyes flickered to the bruises coating Connor’s face before he shrugged as well. “Alright, you got a point there. But hey, you’re the one that got the knife all in my throat.”

“You were the one following me for dubious purposes.”

Hank rolled his eyes. “Why am I the dubious, cowardly one here? Your gang is nothing but a bunch of sneaky, ambushing snakes hiding in some muddy hole somewhere.”

“We’re not hiding.” Connor tilted his head as he squinted at Hank. “...Oh, is that why? You trying to track me to our camp?”

“...Fuck. Yeah, maybe.”

“Why didn’t you just ask?”

“Because… you’re the enemy?”

“But we don’t hide our stronghold. If we do, then our entire trophy wall just goes entirely to waste.”

“Do I even want to ask?”

“You know what? No, you don’t.” Connor got to his feet, again with a flinch, before extending a hand to help him up. “I can show you.”

Hank swatted Connor’s hand out of the way before climbing to his feet. “That’s it? You’re just going to show me where your base is?”

“Why not? Just to the outer perimeter. I did appreciate your help today,” Connor said, moving over to crouch over the last cannibal corpse. Now that Hank was looking properly, he could see that the man’s throat had been slashed out. Connor quickly gave the man’s pockets a pat-down and picked up the machete, sliding it into a loop on his overalls. “They don’t even have the decency to cook before they eat.”

“Yeah. That’s absolutely the worst part of cannibalism,” Hank said flatly.

“The disease risk of raw meat is no laughing matter, Hank.”

 

* * *

**January 17th, 2280**

 

The hangover was fading, but Hank would attribute that to the liquor. After all, the best way to fix a hangover was hair of the dog. Not Connor’s dumb, flavourless eggs. Hank knocked back some scotch before continuing to watch the stage.

Now that he was zoned in on one part of the casino rather than just trying to take in all of it, this was a little more manageable. Granted, he wasn’t sure why anyone would want to watch a ghoul doing a sexy dance. He was chill with ghouls, but there was nothing sexually appealing about a rotting shell of a body no matter how nice the person inside it was.

Still, that’s what he was watching. A largely skinless man thrusting his hips on stage. The room was emptier than it had been earlier, when there had been a pretty girl on stage instead, but there were still a couple of interested parties within. Although at least one of them looked to be covering their face as much as possible, lest someone familiar know where their preferences lay.

Guy had some moves, though, Hank had to give him that.

As he watched, wondering how one did that while missing a good portion of their leg muscles, he heard someone sit down next to him. He didn’t have to turn his head to know who.

“You stayed,” Connor says. It’s a plain, factual statement but he gives Hank a small smile as he says it. Hank only barely catches it out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, well…” Hank grumbled sheepishly. “Might change my mind yet.”

“Of course.” 

Connor’s holding a glass of water and he’s wearing what looks to be the same suit as before, although it seems to have new, dark splotches here and there now. Despite that, it’s still less stained than almost every other outfit in the room. He looks out of place surrounded by this type of civilized vice. Connor gazes towards the stage for a moment, scanning the dancer quickly and clinically, before looking back at Hank. 

“I’d be curious to hear your thoughts on Gomorrah.”

Hank snorted before sipping at his drink again, tearing his eyes from the dancer to look around the room. At the red satin and the fire-lit signs and the blinking slot machines lining the sides of the room. Liquor and drugs at the back, gambling at the sides, sex up the front.

“You’re a porn studio short of having all of New Reno crammed into one building,” Hank finally said. “It’s something, I’ll give you that.”

Connor raised a hand, eyebrows scrunching together ever so slightly. “Don’t even say the words ‘porn studio’ in here, lest Amanda overhear you and decide we need to expand our business horizons.”

“Pssh. You could never get the equipment, anyway. You ever see the cameras they used? Those were fancy.”

“She’d consider that a challenge,” Connor muttered. “Seriously. Quiet down. I don’t need my likeness in another weird video.”

“What does it matter if--another?” Hank's brain briefly short-circuited in the time it took for Connor to wave his hand dismissively.

“Sixty. Not me,” Connor said. “But try telling anyone who’s seen the tape that. ‘It wasn’t me, it was my identical twin.’ It sounds like an implausible lie.”

“You poor bastard,” Hank said, shaking his head with a slight grin. “Let me guess. Someone dared him.”

Connor held his hand flat and wiggled it slightly, making a doubtful noise as he did so. “Not intentionally. Sixty was quite upfront about refusing the recruiters and they took it gracefully. Unfortunately, their way of doing this was to say ‘it’s not for everyone, and we understand if you’re uncomfortable with it.’ Sixty responded with ‘you calling me a coward?’ Presumably filming ensued after that.”

“Christ.”

“Mm. The recruiter pulled it on us both--trying to play for the twin fantasy--and Sixty told him that was disgusting. He apologised for suggesting something so uncomfortable. Sixty said ‘are you saying we’re cowards?’ At which point I fled.”

Hank pushed aside the mental image of what that potential holotape would have been like before shaking his head with a grimace. “Your brother’s fucked up, you know that?” 

“Sixty has always been… like that, yes.”

“Well.” Hank raised his bottle. ”Fuckin’ cheers to cowardice.”

“Cheers.” Connor tapped his glass of water against Hank’s bottle and they both drank. 

It is easy to fall back into old conversational habits, despite everything. Too easy to fall back into a sense of comfort. Hank had to periodically remind himself that Connor has literally tried to kill him multiple times. That there was still a faint scar mostly hidden under the scruff of his beard from Connor scraping his knife against his neck. For all be knew his drink could be poisoned. It was like trying not to nod off to sleep on watch after a day’s trek.

“The fuck were you doing in New Reno, anyway?”

“Product. Jet’s easier to acquire in large quantities there. This was before Bitter--” Connor paused, then said, “Before the Khans started manufacturing. We haven’t had to travel out that way since.”

If talking to Connor was like comfortably nodding off to sleep, that was like someone slapping him awake. 

Too many quick, pissed thoughts flicker through his mind for a moment. Filling his head with the memory of the other Khans dumping their new products on the floor of the tent, explaining how things were going to go from now on. How they were going to make the Khans as strong as they’d once been, like selling a few drugs and raking in a bit of cash would turn the tide of an on-and-off war against the NCR that stretched back over a hundred years. Like it would fix Bitter Springs.

Hank drains his scotch and slams the bottle down with a little more force than necessary.

“Ground rules,” Hank said shortly. “I don't want to hear about any business you've been doing with the Khans. No questions about anything that's happened since we… they… left Vegas. If it was before? Fine, whatever. But after that? I don’t want to talk about it and I don’t want to hear about it. Got it?”

“Got it.” Connor sips at his glass of water before placing it down and lacing his fingers together. “What would you like to talk abo--”

“Excuse me… Connor?”

Someone’s approached their table. One of the blackjack dealers from the other room. He’s standing there with a very slightly nervous air, and he seems unsure when he says Connor’s name. Connor shuts his eyes for a moment, looking like he’s deliberating something, before opening them and turning towards the dealer.

“Yes?”

“We have a guest who’s getting pissed about losing his caps and he’s making all the other guests uncomfortable.”

“I’m… I’m technically not on…” Connor sighs and looks towards Hank. “Would you mind if I dealt with this? It won’t take long.”

Hank shrugs. “Do what you want, it ain’t my casino.”

Connor nods and gets to his feet, looking towards the dealer. “Lead the way.”

The dealer does so. Hank watches the two of them head to the main room, then gets up as well. He can’t pretend he’s not a little curious to see Connor do whatever the hell his job is. Hank’s a stranger to any job that doesn’t involve shooting something. 

He stops at the doorway and leans against it, watching. It’s easy to spot the source of the commotion. A man in a brown suit who’s waving his arms around, shaking his fists and yelling. Throwing accusations of rigged blackjack.

Connor walks over and puts a hand on the man’s shoulders, talking with a blandly polite expression on his face. He sits down next to the man, and ignores the attempt for the man to shrug him off. 

From Hank’s view, he can see underneath the blackjack table. He sees Connor draw the gun from his holster and jam it against the man’s thigh, while still keeping that polite expression. 

The man stops yelling, arms freezing. Connor uses the hand not gripping the gun to nudge the man’s arms down, then calmly gestures around the room. Looking like someone simply describing the attractions of the casino, but Hank notices that anywhere he gestures tends to have an armed guard present. If he couldn’t see the gun underneath the table, however, he’d just assume Connor was being polite and descriptive.

The message was obvious even if Hank couldn’t hear the precise words. ‘I could shoot you or they could shoot you, but that would ruin the good time these people are having. Please do not make me reconsider.’

Hank supposed this job wasn’t so different from the work he knew, after all.

As he watched, he felt an arm circle about his own.

“I was told you were in need of a good time.”

“Uh,” Hank eloquently grunted before looking at the woman who was snuggling up to his arm. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Good time. You. Me. Tent outside. Anything outside of kissing or being rough.” She smiled up at him. “It’s on the house. Apparently the boss likes you.”

“Did Connor put you up to this?” That was a little weird, even for him.

“I… think so?” Although now that Hank had asked, the woman looked a little puzzled about it. She turned her head towards the main room. However, when her eyes landed on Connor, she tilted her head again. “...Which one is he? It was the other one.”

Oh. Sixty. 

“Look, no offence, I’m sure you’re a lovely girl. But I’m not interested, I’m with him and--” Hank paused. “I mean, not with him like… I  think. It’s complicated, just… look, I’m just not about it.”

“I’m very good. And you look… wound-up,” she purred.

“Dazzle, that’s enough.”

Connor had returned, gun holstered once more. Behind him, the freshly intimidated patron was now quickly and quietly walking out of the casino. The woman blinked at him, immediately taking on a slightly more deferential stance. Panic flicking across her features.

“I didn’t--should I have not done--I didn’t mean to interfere with--”

Connor didn’t immediately say something. He instead reached into his suit pocket, drew out an old coin and started playing around with it. It was like a switch flipped on Dazzle. She immediately relaxed.

“Oh,” she said quietly. Her stance remained differential, however. “Sorry. Sixty offered me a bonus if I amused your whatever-complicated-means guy.”

Connor rolled his eyes. “Of course he did. Dazzle, go back to your area. I’ll match the bonus if you tell the others not to listen to Sixty for the night.”

“Deal.” She raised her hand in a casual salute before heading towards the courtyard, looking pretty pleased with that. Connor shook his head slightly before looking back to Hank.

“Sixty presumably thought that would be funny. I predict a stream of other employees if he realises I headed Dazzle off.”

Hank was slightly distracted, however. He was still watching Connor roll the coin over his fingers.

“You still have that piece of junk?”

Connor flipped the coin twice more before tossing it to his other hand, blinking a little. “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I? Besides, it’s useful.” He tossed it back to the first hand. “Sixty and Nines can’t do it. They picked up their own tricks. Sixty has a few loaded dice. Nines is skilled with playing cards. But the coin lets people know it’s me. It’s… reassuring, I suppose. Having something that is familiar.”

Hank watched the coin for a moment. His eyes were still mostly on those movements, but he glanced upwards in time to see a quick, small smile on Connor’s face. A little softer, a little more pensive, than his usual slight twitches.

It made Hank’s stomach tighten a little. There was a brief urge to touch the hand playing with the coin so deftly, but at the same time he didn’t want to interrupt those graceful movements. 

Before he could settle this internal battle, someone else curled an arm around his.

“Hello. Hank, isn’t it?” another voice purred at him. Another employee of Gomorrah, this one male.

“Fuck!” Hank bellowed.

“...I mean, yes, I do that.”

“No! Not interested!”

Before the prostitute could even respond, a third one turned up and snaked her arm around Hank’s free one.

“Hey--”

Hank covered his face. “What the fuck is happening? The fuck is wrong with Sixty?” 

As he said this, lowering his hands briefly again after an exasperated groan, he saw the man himself had now sat himself at the bar. Sixty had a glass of wine in his hand and was watching with a slight smile. As Hank glared at him, he raised his drink slightly before sipping.

“I’m going to have to kill him. That’s the only way,” Hank said, covering his face with his hands again.

“Probably,” Connor agreed. “But you don’t have your gun on you, and Sixty’s very skilled at punching.”

“Shit, that’s right,” Hank grumbled into his hands. He felt the hands move away from his arm for a moment before being replaced with another set and immediately snapped, “Don’t you have jobs?! Patrons who are actually into it?! Quit it!”

“That was me, Hank.” Connor’s voice had indeed shifted to his side in the few moments he’d had his face covered. “Come on. Fresh air will make this go away.”

“Ughhh… fine.”

Hank slowly lowered his arms as Connor led him towards the entrance. Before he did, he looked back at Sixty and gave him about as withering of a stare as those puppy eyes could manage. Sixty just shrugged and kept drinking. 

Connor gave a polite nod to the receptionist, who immediately and wordlessly put Hank’s gun back on the counter. Connor picked it up and slid it back into Hank’s holster. A movement he’d only done in reverse before now. Then he led Hank outside. Walking alongside him with one arm casually curled around Hank’s own. Something that made Hank feel uneasy yet comfortable.

The lights of Vegas once again assaulted Hank’s vision. Bright, glaring colours from every direction. People pushing in on all sides. Too much happening to try and focus on any one thing, making it all overwhelming again now that he’d just barely adjusted to Gomorrah. Hank came to a standstill, blinking rapidly.

Connor gently tugged on his arm. “I know. But… I think I know something you’ll like.”

“If it’s anything like what was in there, I… I don’t know. I mean, I like… y’know, shiny bullshit and colours and people’s junk as much as the next guy. There’s just… there’s a fuckin’ lot.” 

Hank was a simple man. He liked alcohol and the burgers that Gary made at his little stand in Freeside. Gary always advised that no-one to ask what was in them. ‘Goes down better that way,’ he said. And they were good, so Hank didn’t.

This place was just too much.

“Hank.” Connor’s arm curled a little tighter around his own. “Trust me.”

Hank really didn’t trust Connor. 

But he trusted him more than he trusted the lights of Vegas, so he let Connor continue pulling him along. 

 

* * *

**July 22nd, 2267**

 

“Well, now I just feel fucking embarrassed,” Hank grumbled, staring at the Slither Kin’s camp as they approached.

Turns out the Slither Kin had a pretty big area covered, despite the fact that their actual camp--from this distance--didn’t seem too big. It was hard to tell, because walls had been built up around it. From here, Hank could see some glimpses of smoke and the flickering light of a fire, even though the sun had yet to set. He could see a couple of specks moving along the inner wall. Guards keeping an eye out.

But then there was a big stretch of nothing around these inner walls. Cleared almost entirely of even rubble. Just dirt. And then there was another set of walls built around that. Just a layer of rings, marking deep defences.

As Hank squinted at the ring of dirt between the two walls, he noticed bumps here and there. Tiny hills where the dirt had been dug up and piled back in again. There were also scorch marks along the ground here and there. He’d bet anything that there were mines seeded through the whole radius. He didn’t see a clear path in. No markings showing where it was safe to be.

There was also the rather… interesting decorations along the outer wall.

Connor slid down the rocky slope and approached the outer walls. “I’ll show you where the entrance is, in case you want to negotiate. We don’t do that much, but sometimes people like to try. It’s only polite to have somewhere they can knock.”

Hank said nothing as they walked along the outer wall. The wall itself was well-built. It would be difficult to climb, but perhaps not impossible. The walls weren’t smooth, so there would probably be enough dents to get his hands and feet into.

But the ‘trophies’ were rather disconcerting. Every few feet, something was impaled onto a spike. A few of them were creatures of the wasteland. Quite a variety of them. The heads of fire geckos. The tails of nightstalkers. Even the hands of a deathclaw--and a sizeable one at that.

But many of them were corpses of people. 

Mostly unrecognisable in terms of features, either through mutilation or through rot. But armor had often been left on them, particularly if it was distinctive. He saw the masks of the cannibals in a couple of places, dangling from rotten skulls. The scent in the air was putrid from all the decay.

The freshest body--blood had pooled underneath it and dried over the wall, not yet covered by the dust of the wastes--had been dismembered utterly. Arms and legs gone, and while the head had been removed it had been hung up beside the torso. Both the head and torso were utterly unrecognisable. What skin was left was little more than skinned meat. But the armor on the torso was the distinctive black combat armor of the Van Graffs.

“Didn’t even know they came out this way,” Hank said, nodding his head at the Van Graff corpse.

Connor glanced up. “Not often. Probably less now.” He looked back at Hank. “Do you need anyone to carry things for the Great Khans? If we don’t get rid of the other members of the caravan then Sixty will probably end up skinning them, and the slave traders follow an erratic schedule.”

“I’m good,” Hank said flatly.

“They’ve been well-behaved since we hung their boss up.”

“I’m definitely good.”

Hank still stared up at the wall for a little longer. This wasn’t a wall for random wastelanders like the one that Sixty had been systematically taking apart. This was for those who mattered.

Connor led him around to a small gap in the wall. There was no actual entrance to crawl through, but inside the gap was a thin but sturdy rope. Peering through the gap, Hank could see that the strong led to a displaced utility pole that they must have swiped from a street in Vegas, which then led into a similar hole in the inner wall.

On the left and right sides of this hole were a couple more spikes clearly meant to impale other corpses. One of them had a man who wore gecko hides, leathers and very well-worn, dusty boots. He was mostly a skeleton by this point. The other was empty of any body parts.

Connor gestured at the string. “Tug that, and it sets off an alarm that lets us know someone’s here to talk. It’s used by traders primarily.” With that, he grasped at a gap in the wall and hoisted himself up. A whine escaped him lips as he did so, face screwing up a little in pain, but nonetheless he picked spots to scale with well, and soon scrambled to the top of the wall before sitting down on top of it and looking down at Hank.

Hank gestured at the skeleton with the sturdy boots. “Someone important?”

“I don’t recall his name. He used to lead the Boot Riders.”

Big gang. Pretty impressive that they’d never managed to retrieve the corpse. Hank nodded his head at the empty spike.

“And that one?”

Connor tilted his head a little, eyes fixating on Hank for a moment. His fingers tapped along the wall as he considered it.

“I might save it for you,” he said, mouth tugging up at one corner. 

With that, he turned and hopped down the wall on the other side, sliding out of sight. 

Hank looked up, then peered through the small hole in the wall. He saw Connor wandering towards his camp, stepping in a way that said he’d clearly memorized where the mines were, or somehow knew what signs to look for when walking. 

Hank tried to keep track of where he was stepping as he watched, but Connor glanced back at him and started doubling back, then doubling forward again, moving in clearly unnecessary zig-zagging ways in order to throw Hank off. It worked, and by the time Connor was halfway to the camp, Hank had long since forgotten the path he’d taken.

“Shit,” Hank muttered.

Well, he at least knew where the camp was. That was a step in the right direction. Hank pushed away from the wall before glancing at the spike that Connor had promised him. He reached out and ran a hand over it, eyes squinting slightly. After a moment, he shrugged and left.

He supposed being a trophy wasn’t the worst fate possible for his corpse. Better than the cannibals getting him.

 

* * *

**January 17th, 2280**

 

“Hey hey, pal, welcome to the--Connor, get outta here!”

Hank hadn’t heard someone switch from cheesily jovial and welcoming to hostile so quickly.

They’d gone down the street. Past Gomorrah, with the flaming signs and the dancers out front. Past the perpetually sealed Lucky 38, home of Elijah Kamski. Presumably, not that anyone had ever seen him enter or leave.

But soon they had come to a different casino. One that Hank had last seen dilapidated and dark. One with a large, tall sign out the fron that said “The Tops Casino,” with black, rearrangeable text underneath that listed something about a “Rad Pack,” a singer and a quartet.

It didn’t have the same polish on the outside as the Ultra-Luxe across the road, with its shinier lights and extravagant fountain, or the alluring fire and curves of Gomorrah making some very explicit promises of the building’s contents. The Tops was simpler, a round building with a wavy ridge along the edge that glowed yellow and orange in revolving colours.

Connor had glanced at the black-lettered sign and brightened up, saying they were just in time. Then he’d pushed open the doors, and they’d encountered immediate hostility.

The source of the hostility was a man in a black suit with slicked back hair who was manning the reception. Connor sighed, slightly raising the hand that wasn’t curled around Hank’s.

“Swank, I’m not here to cause trouble. I wouldn’t come through the front door if I was.”

“Well, you got me there,” the man grumbled. “What do you want, then?”

Connor nodded his head towards Hank. “I’m showing a friend around. All I want is the same hospitality you’d show to any other guest.”

Swank leaned forward on the front desk a little, squinting at Hank. After a moment, a grin crossed his face. “Shit, I remember you. Hank, wasn’t it? Jesus, what’d you do? Spend six years marinating in a whiskey vat?”

“Fuck you,” Hank grumbled. Now that he looked, there was something familiar about the man’s face. Although he was sure that last time they’d seen each other, that he hadn’t been wearing a suit. Or hair gel. Or have been called Swank, because Hank would remember a name that dumb.

“Swank. Hospitality,” Connor said sternly.

Swank wrinkled his nose a little, glaring at Connor, before shrugging. “Well, if you’re paying, pal.” He said ‘pal’ to Connor in a similar manner as to anyone else saying ‘fuckface.’ “But we’ll be keeping an eye out. You, though.” He nodded at Hank. “Whiskey smell or not, you’re welcome here, pal.” That ‘pal’ was more genuinely friendly. “Gonna have to ask for you to hand over your weapons, though. Casino policy--”

“Yeah, yeah, I got you.” Hank slid out his revolver and put it on the counter. Connor did the same with his gun before briefly balancing on one leg and pulling out a knife that had been strapped underneath his suit leg. He then did the same to the other leg before placing his gun and both knives on the counter.

“Theater open?” Connor asked.

“Upstairs,” Swank said flatly. He nodded at Hank with a smile. “Have a good time, pal. Feel free to come back when you’ve got more tolerable compan--”

“Uh huh. Have a nice day,” Hank said bluntly, this time moving forward before Connor had to tug him. He took a few strides in before realising he had no idea where they were actually going. “...Uh.”

Connor’s mouth twitched into a smile before he tightened his grip on Hank’s arm and pulled him towards the stairs. “This way.”

“Right, right.” Hank glanced back in the direction of the reception as they moved along. “The fuck’s their problem with you?”

Connor shrugged. “Boot Riders.”

"Oh, that’s where I know them from. Man, they cleaned the fuck up, huh?”

“They did. They’re the Chairmen now. But different names and Kamski forcing us under contract to get along doesn’t mean everything’s forgotten.”

“Thought you’d all moved past that. You had no problem giving that shit up to begin with.” Hank couldn’t help but let bitterness colour his voice at those words.

Connor said nothing to that. There was a flicker of that pensive expression on his face before it was smoothed back into his normal, neutral expression.

As they ascended the stairs, Hank looked sideways over the casino. He had a good view from here of the blackjack tables. It was classier than Gomorrah. All the employees were suited up, and while some patrons were drinking alcohol there was no sign of any drugs. The crowds overall seemed a little less rowdy and a little more relaxed amongst the peach-coloured walls and the dark-suited men who were swaggering about.

Hank recognised faces here and there, if only in passing. Men who’d worn leathers and gecko hides in the past, roasting meat on an open flame. Men who’d held guns and helped chase him and his gang out of Vegas, and now welcomed him back--if only as a visitor.

And then, as he was distracted, a sound reached his ear. A sound that he knew intimately, but never so clearly.

The sound of a saxophone, muffled only by the walls.

Hank turned his head, finally paying attention to where Connor was leading him. They were in front of a door, with a sign above it. “Aces Theater,” it spelled out, with each letter in the word Aces decorated with a neon playing card. Then Connor pushed open the doors, and the saxophone became crystal clear.

The Aces Theater was a room with slightly cracked but still gleaming tiled floors, and several tables and booths filled with patrons drinking and talking quietly amongst themselves. In the corner was a bar, with polished wooden countertops and a shelf stocked with booze. But for once, the bar was not where Hank’s gaze immediately went to.

Instead, it went to the centerpiece of the room. A stage, backed by a teal curtain and a neon sign identical to the one outside the door. On that stage were four musicians. Foremost was a man holding the saxophone, hands gliding across the keys, while the other three played a bass, a set of drums and a piano. 

The instruments were scratched and scuffed on the surface, but still clearly as well-cared for as could be done. The piano in much better shape and clearly more often used than the one that sat in the corner of Jericho. The tune they played was relaxed, clearly not meant as a centerpiece at this time but something for people to chat and drink to with their attention occasionally drifting over to the stage. 

But from the moment he saw the stage, from the moment he heard that first note, Hank was enraptured.

Hank had heard jazz before. Extensively. On scavenged holotapes and on the radio. He had a small collection of holotapes in his pack, the pack left with either Simon or Josh--he’d remember which one eventually--those holotapes kept sealed shut inside a case lest they get damaged. But holotapes often skipped erratically or veered in and out in volume depending on their age. The radio crackled, no matter what he listened to it on. He didn’t think he’d ever listened on a radio that could even vaguely be described as ‘new’ and they all had malfunctions.

He’d never heard jazz live. 

Live without crackling or distortion, the way it was meant to be heard. Never seen someone sit with their hands gliding over the keys like they’d been born to do it, fluid but seemingly random notes streaming through the air, unexpected yet coherent. 

Free in a way that Hank never could be on his own.

Hank stared. The music washing over him, saxophone notes streaming through the air backed by the thrum of the bass and the drums, melding with the quiet melody of the piano, the relaxed but upbeat tune filling him better and warmer than the best whiskey.

For a little while, he forgot everything else. And that was a blessing. He was lost to the world until the song ended. Snapped out of it by a few scattered, polite claps. 

He blinked a few times, watching the four musicians bow a little to the lukewarm, mostly distracted applause. Then he looked over at Connor.

Connor wasn’t watching the stage.

Connor was watching him. His gaze as distant yet focused staring at him as Hank had been while staring at the stage. A bigger, more genuine smile on his face. But the moment Hank realised Connor was watching him, Connor quickly looked away and at the stage. Trying to put on airs that he’d been watching the musicians, too.

“I thought you’d like it,” Connor said quietly. That smile still lingering on his face, and the faintest hint of colour in his cheeks.

That look directed at Hank… it almost frightened him. Disconcerted him to think that anyone could still look at him that way.

But… even so.

“I guess Vegas isn’t all bad,” Hank admitted gruffly.

Connor hummed cheerily. “There are good parts. Shall we sit down?”

Hank didn’t have time to agree before the music started up again. He barely managed to nod before slipping back into that hypnotised state. Lost to the world once more.


End file.
